


The Price of Allegiance

by rosalind25



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Angst, Crusades, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7958950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosalind25/pseuds/rosalind25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened to Robin and Much in the Holy Land? How might Robin's experiences there have helped shape the man he was to become upon his return to England? </p><p>Follow in their footsteps through a land at war, through events over which they have no control, until the army sojourns in Jaffa. There, Robin meets a woman who will ultimately help him recover his lost path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Acre

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All BBC Robin Hood characters and the show are the property of BBC and Tiger Aspect productions.
> 
> Please note this chapter contains scenes of war violence.
> 
> Apologies re comment moderation everyone, have received a series of objectionable comments which warrant it.

**_The Holy Land – June 1191_ **

_No longer Robin of Locksley. I’m the Earl of Huntingdon, captain of the king’s guard._

Yet even this was hard to remember sometimes, crammed inside the belfry, where the stink of the piss- and vinegar-drenched hides covering it lodged in his nostrils. Sometimes, despite the hides, missiles found their mark. Flames would snatch at an arm or a face and a bowman would fall back screaming, his skin crinkling like dried up leaves and peeling off him in tiny curls.

No day was silent beneath the walls of Acre. But that day, there wasn’t just the creak and heave of the mangonels, and the steady, repetitive thump of impact. No, that day there were shouts, and a fierce, contagious excitement, as the mine shaft props beneath the Accursed Tower were set alight and the pace of the bombardment accelerated until the tower could no longer withstand the pressure against it from both above and below. Slowly, at first, it began to crack. Another missile struck, and another, and with that it seemed as if the whole structure exhaled its last breath. The tower sank a little. Stone unknit from stone, until with the force of a landslide and a sound that reverberated across plain and hills it collapsed, shrouding all around it in a rising cloud of dust.

Before it settled, they crowded into the breach. If the defenders were shocked by the tower’s destruction they gave no sign; they traded blade for blade and blow for blow. Bones cracked beneath the force of them. Men grunted with effort and hacked and thrust, and blood pulsing from fatal wounds coated Saracen and Crusader alike in a mist finer than the settling dust.

Somehow they were beaten back. Nonetheless, it was a victory; it was only a matter of time, everyone knew. Robin bent double, his chest heaving. When he had his breath back he straightened and looked about for Much, who had gore and dust and sweat caked on his face. Probably a mirror image of his own.

This still happened, and it disoriented him. He might no longer be Robin of Locksley – he’d come too far from the greenwood and the fields and the sunlit memories, and had seen too many things – but Much…decent, kind-hearted, loyal Much, who belonged in those places, he would always be the same. And the _wrongness_ of it, of seeing Much _here_ ….

He should be grateful, he supposed. They weren’t even seeing the worst of it. They’d arrived with Richard’s fleet a few weeks earlier, and by then the men outside Acre had been surviving on grass, on horse meat and entrails, and chewing on discarded bones. They’d been greeted as heroes. And as the war machines were brought ashore and assembled up against the walls, it had indeed looked grim for the beleaguered city.

Much was wheezing. He’d recently recovered, laid low by the same illness the king suffered, who was still only able to watch the siege from a litter on the side-lines. But Much insisted he wouldn’t leave Robin to fight without him. He tore off his helmet. Sweat plastered what was left of his hair to his scalp. He ran his hand over it, self-conscious. But that made it worse, as unruly tufts stuck up all over the place. He hunted for the skull-cap, the one he’d taken to wearing, forgetting for a moment that he didn’t have it on him.

“Did you see that?” he gasped. “Meulan. Pushed himself along the lance and took out his man.”

“Yes – yes, I did.”

Robin was no longer surprised, not by anything they did. There were decent men here, like Hubert Walter, and Robert of Leicester. But many of the crusaders were ferocious, chilling in their focus and determination. It said something, he thought, that the very first story they’d heard, on the night of their arrival, had been of a village skirmish which saw one of them snatch up a stray chicken, stretch its neck and, binding this around his wound, continue fighting. Robin knew they’d been having sport with them. But having seen these men fight, he suspected there might be newcomers who’d be gulled into believing such an outlandish tale.

Weeks passed; the walls weakened. Saladin made another attempt to overrun their camp, and was turned back. Knowing this to be the end, against Saladin’s will the besieged surrendered. Finally, after two years, it was done. The victors’ banners flew over the battlements. Robin led a contingent into the city as the army moved through it taking prisoners. He was the last to leave one house.

It had once been home to someone influential, but now it stank, of waste and illness and unwashed bedding. Yet he noticed one precious thing. Was oddly touched by the way a half-unfurled scroll, with its illustrations and its curling script, had been carefully placed in a niche out of harm’s way. Moved by what impulse he couldn’t say, Robin reached for it and was just tucking it away beneath his mail shirt when Much entered.

“Are you done here? They’ve already….hey, what’s that?”

Much grabbed the scroll, then hastily dropped it.

“Master, what are you doing?” he said, in a panicked whisper. “Why would you want that? If you’re caught with it they’ll think you’re a spy. You’ll be executed for treason.”

“No I won’t.” Robin stooped. He picked up the scroll, and brushed the dirt from its edges. “No one will see it. I’ll keep it hidden.”

“You can’t even read it,” Much observed, judiciously.

“No. But maybe one day.” Much just looked at him, shaking his head. “You’re mad. Look, can we get out of here, before someone else comes looking for us?”

Robin hid the text, and followed Much outside.

He was back in the port the next evening - and one or two more, over the following month - seeking release, just like the next man. Women of the trade flocked to Acre once it fell, with their tinted eyes and painted nails, and anklets and earrings that flashed with their movements in the candlelight. And if he sometimes saw sights that would make a decent man blanch, well, he turned a blind eye. But fairly soon, his visits to the pleasure dens ceased.

At the end of July, King Phillip sailed home; a source of worry for Richard, exposing his Angevin territories to threat. He sent Mercadier and his mercenaries back to keep an eye on things. Worse was to come. Despite the surrender, the armies still harassed each other; Saladin was slow to collect the prisoners’ ransom.

“Master, quickly.” Much rushed into their tent the day before it was due.

“What is it?” Robin put down the bowstring he was waxing.

“Ferriers is out of control. He says Saladin’s murdered his prisoners, and that we should do the same. He’s dragged some of ours before the king, urging him to retaliate.”

“What?” Robin leapt to his feet; they ran for the king’s tent.

Ferriers had been careless in his selection. Men both old and young, women, children, possibly twenty in all, had been herded onto the trampled dust in front of the rug spread before the great tent, whereupon sat Richard’s chair.

“He’s been playing us for fools, don’t you see? He doesn’t have it,” Ferriers was haranguing the king. “And now he does this, he butchers our men….”

“To what end, Ferriers?” demanded Robin, striding into their midst. “When he can be rid of them on the slave market, and when he knows we hold all these lives at our mercy?”

“Because he’s done it before, after Hattin,” hissed the crusader. “He cannot be trusted.”

“What proof do you have?” scoffed Robin. “Or is it all hearsay?”

“You forget, Huntingdon, these people are our enemies.” Ferriers stalked across to one of the prisoners, an elderly man, hauling him up and dragging him towards Robin. “Yet you argue to protect them. Perhaps you need to show us, here and now, whether your blade works the king’s bidding or…”

“Enough,” snapped Richard, rising and stepping forward. “Don’t presume to know my will, Ferriers. Robin is correct in what he says. Or do you have proof? No, I thought not. Well, we’ll not act on rumour. I’ll send someone – you, Robin, you can go, and Hubert. Both of you, this evening, find out if there’s any truth in it. And either way, make sure Saladin is aware the terms stand. That he has until tomorrow noon to pay the first instalment.

Now, Ferriers, put these prisoners back where you found them. There’ll be no killing today.”

                                     ---------------------------------------------------------------------

“This way.”

The guard who checked that they were unarmed ushered them into the vestibule of the tent. A servant waited to take their boots.

“Enter now.”

The guard lifted the curtain on a torch-lit, pine-scented interior. Coloured in jewelled tones, it was liberally supplied with rugs and cushions, guards, and not much else. At first glance Robin counted five spears, four scimitars, and he guessed that the number of concealed daggers on them would easily triple that number. To one side was a low table, inlaid with mother-of pearl, on which sat a jug and sweetmeats. There was an intricately carved, ebony stand on which a large, beautifully illustrated book was laid open; the Sultan’s brother, the one they called Safadin, stood beside this, with his hands clasped. He looked up at their entrance, and turned to face them.

He was a compact figure. He had a neatly trimmed beard, dark salted with grey; olive skin, a long straight nose, and very still eyes. A heavily-set clasp held his headdress in place. Gold thread wove through the embroidery on his tunic, which came to the knee over maroon silk trousers.

The guard who had followed behind nudged Robin, Hubert and Much forward.

“Welcome. I trust you had no mishap on your way here? Please – sit, eat.”

Safadin settled gracefully onto the cushions. They followed suit. Robin watched the Saracen second-in-command as they ate, pleased to note Much wasn’t falling on the food as he would normally do. Perhaps he’d counted weapons in the tent as well, and feared the consequences of any flagrant breach of etiquette.

Only when the demands of hospitality were met did Safadin get down to business.

“Your liege doubts we’ll meet the pledge, that’s why he sent you,” he observed.

“Not exactly,” replied Hubert. “There have been reports – rumours – that the prisoners held here have been executed.”

“Not true, and easily proved. We can show you the compound as you leave.” Safadin paused; his tone hardened. “Is it so hard to believe, I wonder, that we may act honourably?”

“For some,” replied Robin. “War breeds slander.”

“And you? What do you believe?” The Saracen turned dark, intent eyes on him.

Robin considered his next words carefully.

“I judge by actions,” he said. “I’ve heard the Sultan allows us to send help into the field, to retrieve and treat our wounded. That speaks of honour to me.”

Safadin gazed at him thoughtfully.

“So, the prisoners are alive. And your king wants his ransom on time,” he said. “That’s what you’ve come to tell me?”

“It is,” confirmed Robin.

“Does he understand that the commanders of Acre agreed those terms without my brother’s sanction?”

“I believe he does,” put in Hubert. “But the price is set, and due at noon tomorrow. His Majesty has allowed as much time as he can.”

“Well, if you are not here to negotiate I see no reason to prolong your visit.”

Safadin rose; they did likewise. Robin, nearest the ebony stand, took a curious step towards it. Immediately spear-points pricked at him from all directions. He’d miscounted; there were seven. Safadin waved the guards back and joined Robin.

“Master, is that the same….” Robin hissed at Much to be quiet.

Safadin observed the exchange, but only said mildly:

“Our holy writings.”

“What does it say – there?” Robin gestured toward the open page.

“ _For every man there is a purpose which he sets up in his life. Let yours be the doing of all good deeds_ ,” quoted Safadin.

Robin glanced up, taken aback by the quiet-spoken words. The thought that this man, and all that he represented, was their enemy, suddenly created a dissonance in his heart.

“Tell your king,” Safadin said briskly, “that our envoys will be there tomorrow.”

They turned to go.

“And Crusader,” he called softly, as the guard lifted the curtain aside at the entrance. “May you live to find your own purpose.”

The fabric whispered closed.

                                         ---------------------------------------------------------------------

It was past noon, that time of day when the heat sucked moisture from a man and shred his will to do anything but seek relief from it. Not the time of day to be gathering an army. But this was exactly what the king had commanded.

There’d been no sign of the envoys.

“I don’t like this, master. Where are we going?” Much fretted, as the army left camp and marched out onto the plain.

“No. I don’t either,” muttered Robin.

He glanced at the king, and moved his mount until he rode alongside. Richard glanced at him, but neither spoke. It wasn’t until they halted, and Robin saw the two lines of crusaders being drawn up, and heard the shuffling and protests of prisoners being herded along behind them, that he began to glean what the king planned. An example, to show Saladin he meant business. He wondered how many were intended. Twenty? Fifty? The thought of it turned his stomach.

“Sire – wait,” he said urgently. “This isn’t necessary. He said they’d come today. Something could have happened on the way, let me go and…”

He suspected factions on both sides might be willing to disrupt the process.

“No Robin.” Richard turned to him, his expression as pitiless as the sun. “You’re too ready to believe what you wish to believe.”

“This is….”

“…necessary. The council met last night, while you were away. Some spoke against it, but most who offered their counsel agreed.”

“That’s their bloodlust talking, and you know it,” snapped Robin, becoming desperate. “It doesn’t need to be so many, a few would do. And what about the risk to our people, to Saladin’s prisoners, if he retaliates?”

His voice was rising; Robin paused, trying to master himself, as the prisoners were funnelled between the lines. He twisted in the saddle, and couldn’t believe what he saw. It looked like they were all being led out; why so many? To watch, he supposed, or to make up a random selection. His heart began to thump; he had a white-knuckled grip on the reins.

“It’s been decided Robin.” The king was implacable.

“This is wrong,” he ground out. “It shames us.”

“Enough – you forget yourself, Huntingdon.” The king’s voice was steel. “Don’t question further, or you may need to prove your loyalty with your sword, as Ferrier suggested yesterday.”

_Don’t ask it. Don’t ask this of me._

The king must have read the horror in his eyes.

“Robin,” he said more gently. “There are men more suited to this; they can do the work. Take that manservant of yours and lead the troops on the eastern flank. Keep the advance guard back, make sure they don’t intervene.”

Robin waited moments more, unable to believe he was this helpless. He became aware of Much tugging at his sleeve.

“Master – Robin - come now. Quickly. Before he changes his mind.”

Robin allowed Much to slap his horse forward. They moved away, pressing through the massed ranks. Behind them, piteous cries rose as the waiting blades began to slice and swipe. It felt like flight, but if he had to stay and watch - or worse, participate – he knew he’d go mad.

It felt like he had, that evening, once they’d ridden back past the carnage.

Word had reached him during the afternoon, as they held back the Saracen feints – they couldn’t risk a pitched battle, not with the crusader army fully drawn up on the plain – that no prisoners were being spared. The afternoon had taken on a surreal quality. He’d been at war with himself: obeying the order to stay and hold the line of defence, as the king commanded, while every instinct he possessed had screamed at him to abandon that task and return to try and stop what was happening.

Events repeated over and over in his head that evening, like the refrain of a monk’s chorus. _I should have acted. If I’d thought quicker…did I tell him Safadin said today, but that he hadn’t confirmed noon?_

 “Yes – of course you did, both of you did last night. You told me so yourself,” Much crooned.

He didn’t realise he’d said it aloud. Much held him in his arms, rocking him as if he were a child. Robin lurched to his feet and would have been sick again, but he had nothing more to bring up.

They were in a back alley, huddled against a wall, careless of the dust and refuse. He wouldn’t go back to camp, not while the carrion birds swarmed over the plain. There would be no sleep, not that night, perhaps not ever. They roved the streets of Acre. Morning found them at the port, his eyes gritty and his mouth sour. The fleet lay offshore, all masts and might, the glare of the sun on the water hurting his head.

“Are we deserting?” Much asked quietly. “Because if we are – you know I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Robin didn’t answer. They watched the fishermen bringing in the dawn catch, pulling boats up onto the shingle, untangling lines, sorting piles of fish that were all silver scales and glassy, dead eyes. The sight made him long for home, for the simple tasks that made up life at Locksley; for a life that was simple. Instead of sitting here in a foreign port, mired in a hurt so deep he could barely grasp it in his own head. He felt….defiled.

“No Much,” he said at length, unshed tears burning his eyes. “We aren’t deserting.”

_For every man there is a purpose._

He wondered what that book, or any one for that matter, might have to say of a man whose purpose had just become untethered, casting him out into an unknown sea. 


	2. Arsuf

Mile after mile the creak of the wheels accompanied them along the coastal road, monotonous, repetitive. Above the cart hung the Lionheart’s standard, limp in the still air. Some mornings a breeze from the sea curled around its edges, teasing them. But as the sun rose and they slogged on, the only reprieve came in the afternoons, when the king instructed the massive column to stop and rest.

Sweat trickling in his eyes, Robin waited on the shore. He licked blistered, thirst-swollen lips, watching the incoming boat. Its oars dipped and rose, spray glistening in the late, low sun. He’d been to the ship the night before, relieved to see that Much was improving. He wasn’t the only one who’d been taken aboard; men had begun dropping from sunstroke over a week ago. Despite the gentle pace – five miles a day – the weight of the heat on felt armour and chain mail was slowly crushing them. The worst affected were buried each day, under the sands, before the army moved on. 

Everything here was hostile. Even breathing, with the air so suffocating, seemed to smother the lungs. Thirst, fatigue, tarantulas in their bedding; the river - the one near Caesarea, blue and glittering – that had been the death of two crusaders. Before anyone knew enough to shout a warning, the water had been frothing and churning. Those nearest, the quickest to realise, had splashed in a way, pikestaffs and spears hovering. But impossible to get a clear aim with the crocodiles rolling, rolling, and soon the blood was spreading on the surface and the beasts dragged their meal down and out of sight. A fresh horror, to go with all the rest.

That was the evening Much had collapsed, and been taken out to the fleet. Since then, solitude had been another enemy; his thoughts made dire company.

The boat reached the shallows. Two men held it steady while its occupants climbed out and splashed ashore. Among them, Much trudged up the sand, frowning.

“You’re not well yet,” Robin said, peering at him.

“I’m fine. My head still hurts, a bit – well, a lot really - but that’s all. I told them I was coming back today. The food’s better here, out there the commanders must keep the best and give the rest of us slops. At least here we all get the same.”

Robin knew that wasn’t quite true. It was for Much, because he kept him nearby.

“So, have you been…” Much paused, clearing his throat. “You know, since I went out there, have you…”

“….been bored? Been wishing someone would distract me by speculating on whether or not a tarantula could eat a scorpion?” Robin’s lips split painfully as he grinned. “Or trying to guess the most arrows those padded jerkins can take and still leave a man standing?”

“I told you, I counted ten once.”

“Well it didn’t count, he was down.”

“Not fair!” cried Much. “His jerkin was never going to stop an arrow to the neck, was it?”

“Maybe – but still, that was the yardstick….”

They walked up the sand arguing, weaving their way through the baggage lines. Mules there were few. Most of the gear was carried by foot soldiers being given a day’s rest from the outer flank, the ranks most exposed to Saladin’s archers. They harassed constantly, keeping the men on edge. Mounted on light, fast horses, they’d swoop in, not daring to venture within crossbow range. Which meant their rain of arrows, as black in the sky as an insect swarm, did only a fraction of the harm it could have done. Men died, of course, but more often than not the jerkins gave their wearers adequate protection.

It was all a waiting game. The Saracens shadowed their march a couple of miles inland, trying to goad an attack. Robin had to admire Richard’s strategy, pressing on despite all provocation, keeping between the sea on one side and his infantry ranks on the other. He refused to be drawn into a conflict that in terrain and tactics would favour the enemy. More importantly, to a man the army knew what was required of them. They marched doggedly on, refusing to be provoked.

Robin had been attending councils when required. He performed what civility and duty demanded, and no more. The camaraderie which had once existed between himself and the king was gone. In its place was judgement, and the malaise of disillusionment.

He’d always believed in Richard. If war had opened his eyes to some things, at least he’d always had that: an unwavering belief in the king. He saw Richard as just, as fearless, a bold and bright light in battle, a seasoned tactician, a king prepared to fight for his belief in a holy cause. He was England. He was their hope, their future; and, Robin believed, a friend.

The executions had fragmented this belief. It had made him question, everything; an ugly place to be. Trudging south, the rigours of the march had just seemed to encase his black thoughts. He was heartsore, thoughts floundering like the burdened infantry in the sands.

At least now he had Much back.

“Master, why do you never talk about home?” he asked one evening.

They’d just emptied the last of the spiders out of the tent and bedded down. Robin sucked in a breath; he didn’t want to answer.

“I can’t,” he said eventually. Would have said no more, but Much, uncharacteristically silent, was waiting. “I can’t Much. If I did, I couldn’t stand to be _here_. I need to forget it, for now.”

“Well I can’t do that. If I think of home, it helps remind me there’s something else, that we have something normal to go back to.”

“I know, but I just can’t. I miss it too much.”

_I miss her._

How could that happen? How could that memory slash out at him, as fresh as if it were yesterday: him and Marian shouting at each other, beneath their special oak? Her clumsily trying to work the betrothal ring from her finger, unable to see clearly through her tears of hurt and anger. And he, too blind to see anything beyond his duty, beyond his loyalty to the king. Beyond _his need_ to do this, his belief in the rightness and the necessity of it.

No – that wasn’t true. There’d been other reasons, of which he was less proud: a youthful restlessness, and the need to prove himself by putting his skills to use. Not only that, he couldn’t imagine sitting at home, having done nothing to earn his privileges, while his liege left to fight in a foreign war. It was a chance to prove his worth.

And, if he was honest with himself, he’d also been proud of the Lionheart’s regard for him - of the honour such an association would bring.

He hadn’t known how to explain any of this to Marian. Nor would it have helped; he could just imagine her scorn. Instead, he’d hoped she would understand that above all it was his duty, that he really had no choice. But she’d left him, with only angry and bitter words exchanged between them. He’d tried, twice, to see her again, hoping they could mend things a little. She was his love, after all. Nothing could change that; going away didn’t mean she wasn’t lodged in his heart as firmly as ever.

But she’d refused to see him. The first time, Sir Edward had turned him away at the door. The second, he’d been more creative in his approach, had shimmied up to her window one evening. When she caught sight of him, an unguarded smile had lit his hopes, before the layers of hurt rushed back, closing down her expression and her heart, followed by the shutters slamming in his face. It had been his last glimpse of her, before he’d left to join the king’s forces.

Return to something normal, Much said? Robin didn’t care to think what might await him. Having broken their engagement, Marian was free to marry elsewhere. Would he eventually return only to find her wed to someone else? Or even, bearing another man’s child?

“….but still, there’d be things you’d look forward to, surely?”

Robin sat up abruptly. He didn’t know, or care, what else Much had been saying.

“Need some air,” he muttered, clambering out of the tent.

Outside he sat on the hard ground, staring up. The stars were as stark here as the rest of the landscape was in the daytime. He wondered if over Sherwood that night home and the presence of familiar things would have lent them some warmth. They gave no comfort here. And as he’d said to Much, nor did his memories. Worse now, as doubt wormed its way into his head. Had he been _wrong_ about it all? Wrong to come here, wrong to leave Marian? He had no vision of what his life would be like without her, if they ever returned home.

_No longer Robin of Locksley._ He didn’t know who he was anymore; it scared him.

When he finally heard Much snoring, he went back in to try and sleep.

The next day, after two weeks of slogging south, they entered an oak forest, an undulating woodland with shade they’d gladly have traded to be rid of the fear the Saracens might fire it and trap them.

“I don’t like this, not one little bit,” Much muttered.

Over the jangle of spurs and harness, and the tramp of boots, they could hear nothing but birdlife. No war cries, no hoof beats, no crackle of flame. They camped that night in the woods, and the next, a tense, muted silence existing between the trees. The king sent men to parley with Safadin; a play for time, resting the men. Because by then the scouts had reported what awaited them: the whole Saracen host, drawn up on the open ground between the woodland and the sea.

On the second morning, they broke camp early and left the forest. The king took care with his order of march, keeping Robin and the private guard, and his own knights, with him at the centre. Mid-morning, the onslaught began. No warning, just the sudden appearance of masses of horsemen, a tide sweeping down the slopes, silk banners rippling beneath a sea of glittering lance-tips. Robin had never seen, or heard, anything like it. Calming his mount, he watched – they all did – as the Saracen warriors, their turbans the colour of blood, flung themselves at the infantry lines, amid a cacophony of war cries, trumpets and drums.

Crossbow quarrels thumped into the enemy ranks but they came on, crashing into the crusader lines. The Saracen cavalry was repulsed, re-formed, and came at them again and again throughout the morning. The Duke of Burgundy and a handful of knights rode up and down the seething battle-front, relaying the king’s orders to hold, hold, to delay the charge; spotting weaknesses in the lines, sending men to plug the gaps.

The din of cymbals and gongs was ceaseless, as were the flocks of arrows pelting them from the sky. Robin didn’t need to see – often couldn’t, through the dust clouds – to know the hammering being taken by the rear-guard. The repeated messages to the king asking if they could attack yet said it all. That they held as long as they did, even though seasoned fighters, it should have been a miracle. But when the harrying finally made them break, when the Hospitallers in their flowing black mantles surged through and the Lionheart raised his arm and his mighty voice to lead his own knights out in support, Robin felt a glimmering of his old assurance return.

Today he could fight without shame. _This_ was a king he could follow.

He fought by Richard, matching kill for kill, and Much fought alongside him. The king forged forward, impaling men on his lance. When that was gone, his blade struck sparks from armour, cleaving heads and limbs, his blows toppling men to join the piles of dead and wounded in the sand. Robin’s own sword wove and thrust, his focus now honed with the Lionheart so near. _Protect the king. Protect England_. It settled back over him, shredding his doubts. He’d stop at nothing, here on the battlefield, to do what was needed. He hacked at a hauberk, hard enough to crack ribs, and jerked the blade clear in time to take out the next attacker with an upward stroke that split him chin to frown. Blood coated Robin’s forearm, as he ripped free and faced the next.

The Saracens were being driven back, but they could swiftly re-form. With a temporary lull, Richard saw the danger: knights who’d pursued too closely were being cut down beneath the standard of Saladin’s nephew. He spurred his destrier forward, rallying a charge; and then a second. They swept into the fray, blades whirling, uncanny in their accuracy. With the force of the onslaught this last pocket of resistance crumbled, routed along with the rest of the army.

“A great victory Robin!” exulted the king later as they left the battlefield, an arm about his shoulder.

In its wake, the army was re-organised and they continued down the coast, though many of the infantry slipped out of their line of march to turn back and loot the slain. No one stopped them.

“What’s wrong with me Much?” Robin asked, after they’d made camp for the night. He was looking at his hands, holding them out in front of him; they were rock-steady. “Two weeks ago he had those prisoners butchered yet today, here I am….”

He choked to a halt.

“You were just doing your duty,” Much assured him.

“And if he’d asked me to help execute those prisoners, what would I have done then? My _duty_?” The word twisted his mouth.

Much fidgeted, unwilling to look him in the eye.

“I don’t know.” A pause. “You think too much.”

“Do I? _You_ think, Much – what would you have done?” Robin knew he’d gone too far; his friend did look at him then, a wide, reproachful stare. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right. I do think too much. Forget I said anything.”

But the question wouldn’t leave him alone. It dogged him, every mile of the way south, and kept him staring up into the dark, sleepless at night until three days later they reached Jaffa, where they set up camp in the olive groves outside the cast-down walls of the town.  
                                     -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alix hadn’t meant to come this far. But it was the best vantage point, to be able to look back and see the vast army encamped outside the town. That host on which her hopes rested.

She’d not been in Jaffa long, a little more than three weeks.

The approach of the crusaders had been signalled by Saladin and his forces. They’d moved south, burning crops, razing farmhouses, ensuring the land would have nothing to offer the English king and his army. There’d been little warning for those who lived along the route. One day, about their business as usual; the next, confusion, fear, a hasty gathering of belongings, an exodus on horse and foot and donkey. Alix had made use of this chaos to escape.

Some folk would wonder why. She certainly had nothing better to come to here, and although the farm had been poor she’d been clothed and fed and sheltered. Harun hadn’t been cruel, not in the way most folk would see it. He’d not ill-used her, nor beaten her, except in those earliest days – four years ago – when she’d tried almost daily to escape. He’d been at his wits’ end. But it had been his wife, standing over her one night as she huddled in the straw, who’d finally convinced Alix of her folly. No one, Sabah said, would gain entrance to Jerusalem at that time, certainly no pilgrim, Christian or slave. It would be better to wait.

And Sabah had promised information which would help her; which she could earn, if she learned her place, if she did what was required and made no more fuss.

_This_ was why she had waited. This army, which now overran the olive groves like a locust swarm. This army, which would march inland and retake Jerusalem. And when they did, she would follow; something she could never have done as a slave.

She hoped it would be soon though, before the small amount of coin and the trinkets she’d stolen from Harun and Sabah to sell ran out. Alix had no idea what she would do when that happened.

When she’d left the crossroads, the road had dipped and then risen past the rocky cliffs to the south, and now led towards a grove of date palms a half mile distant. There would be a well; she could refill her water-skin before walking back to town. Approaching it, Alix raised her scarf to cover her face; the grove seemed deserted, but it paid to be careful.

As she began to work the crude wooden shaft, metal clinked. Alix swung around; too late, she realised her mistake. Two soldiers had been resting in the shade. Now they rose, and walked towards her with deliberate steps. _Breathe; be calm_. Foolish, so foolish to come here; their intent was clear. She released the handle, heard the bucket lurch on its rope and smack the side of the well as she reached inside her garment for the dagger she kept concealed there.

“Would you like help with that, my dear?’ offered one, a sweat-stained rag about his forehead. “You seem to have dropped it."

Alix palmed the dagger, but the small motion caught the eye of the shorter man. Swiftly they closed the gap, one pinning her arms, the other pulling the scarf from her face.

“Too lovely to cover, this.”

He squeezed her mouth into a pout, all sour breath, bristled chin and hard, determined eyes. She gasped as fingers dug and squeezed, prising the weapon from her hand. Alix struggled and kicked, aware she’d be on the ground soon and helpless to stop them. But the shorter one twisted her arms behind her; the other, breathing heavily, was dropping his sword-belt and already unlacing.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” a calm voice interrupted. “There’s plenty of entertainment to be had in the town.”

A crusader stood at the edge of the grove, an arrow trained on the one disrobing.

“Why waste coin when we can get it for free?” he growled.

“Let her go,” demanded the newcomer.

“You won’t do it. You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“Just try me,” he said, genially.

“What, for one of her kind?”

“Better for all if I don’t need to. Then the king wouldn’t have to learn you’d been roughing up the locals, against his orders.”

“I know you,” muttered the one restraining her. “Huntingdon. The King’s guard.”

Choosing that moment, Alix butted her head back, as hard as she could. Her captor groaned, and let her go, but not as she intended. He shoved her towards his companion, spoiling any hope the bowman had of a clear shot.

He took it anyway. Alix reeled back, her cheek grazed by the arrow’s fletching. She was confused. She knew she should run. But there was blood everywhere, coursing through the man’s fingers as he clutched at his ear, and the other one had just charged the bowman; they were trading blows beside the well. She bent to pick up the wounded man’s sword belt, surprised to find it so heavy.

“You won’t be needing that.”

Alix straightened, startled, and shied from the gentle hand on her elbow. The crusader took a step back. She looked around, saw that the fight was indeed over. Her attacker was flat on the ground, knocked senseless. The other one was alternately groaning and cursing.

“You’ve not heard the end of this Huntingdon,” he spat, then he turned and staggered off between the palms.

Alix sank down by the well, hugging her arms around her legs, shaking. The bowman considered her a moment, then busied himself drawing water. When that was done, he crouched beside her.

“Would you like to clean up?” he asked quietly.

He gestured and, glancing down, Alix saw that she did have blood and dust caked down her right arm. She wiped at it ineffectually. The crusader pushed the bucket towards her; Alix noticed he’d taken a cut to the arm himself. She pulled a kerchief from her skirt, and moistened it in the water.

“Here,” she croaked. “Your arm.”

“It’s fine, it’s just a scratch.” 

Alix gestured him closer. When he complied, she began cleaning the wound as best she could.

“I can’t do much. You’ll need stitches, and the sooner the better. Is there someone….?”

“Yes. The physician at camp will see to it.” His hand closed over hers, and she glanced up. His eyes were kind, and Alix couldn’t look away. “First though, we have to get you home.”

He stood and helped her up. As she brushed out her skirt she noticed something lying on the ground.

“Is that yours?” she asked.

The crusader bent to pick up a leather pouch. Its contents, a scroll, had spilled during the fight.

“Where did you get that?”

“From Acre, after it fell.”

“And you carry it with you?”

“Sometimes.” He looked uncomfortable. “I guess I’m hoping I’ll find someone who can read it to me. Or teach me to read some of it.”

“Well you won’t out here,” Alix observed wryly.

The man on the ground was stirring.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Alix started to follow, but her steps were shaky; she was glad of his proffered arm.

“Huntingdon they called you, my lord?” she asked, as they trod the highway back towards Jaffa. “Does that mean you’re a baron?”

“An earl. And you’re…..?”

“Alix.”

“Alix, of…..?”

“Cilicia, once. Of nowhere now.”

“We all belong somewhere,” he murmured. “Sometimes, we just don’t know where.”

“And is that why you want to learn what’s in that scroll?”

“Maybe. I’ve many reasons. Mainly I just want to understand who and what it is we’re fighting.” He paused, so long that she thought he’d done speaking. “Not long ago someone translated a single line for me. I realised then…”

“What?” She looked up, shading her eyes.

“That there are some things we’ll never know unless we ask the right questions.”

They walked on, each wrapped in their own thoughts, until they reached the bazaar at the edge of town. Alix halted.

“I’ll be fine from here. Thank you, I can’t bear to think….” Her voice quivered.

“Shhh, it’s over. Nothing bad happened.” He cradled both her hands between his, pressing them gently. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“Yes.”

The crusader nodded. He dropped her hands and turned away.

“Wait. My lord, I think I know someone who can help you with the translation.” _I owe him a favour, don’t I_? “Meet me by the tanner’s at noon, the day after tomorrow, and I’ll take you to him.”

He smiled, lifting a hand in farewell. Alix watched him weave his way past the stalls, and past the jumbled ruin of the walls. Saladin and his army had been so thorough in taking them down that much of the town had been destroyed, leaving the crusaders with no choice but to camp outside it. 

When he was gone she turned and walked back into town, toward her own dingy, airless lodging at the back of a seamstress’ shop, her mind churning over the rash offer she’d just made, and wondering what on earth had possessed her to make it.


	3. Jaffa

The sweet scent of jasmine, after the odour and heat of the streets, gave welcome relief. The vine abundantly covered the lattice screen behind which Alix sat, listening to the murmur of voices in the courtyard. From this position, the earl and the elderly servant were visible through the foliage. They sat in the shade of the far corner, their heads bent over scrolls laid out on the stone bench between them.

Sun glinted from the small tiled pool in the centre. This was the third day she’d brought him here. She hadn’t been sure, at first, whether or not Bashir would still be employed. After so many years, and the dismantling of her sister’s household, it was possible – more than likely, in fact – that he would have been moved on. But she’d been lucky; the new owner, now fighting in Saladin’s army, had kept him on. Bashir remembered her, and had been prepared to help.

“You’ve had no word of Yeva?” she’d asked him, but without real hope. “You’ve not seen her anywhere?”

“No, child. Not since you were both sold.”

“I have a name of someone, Sabah gave it to me. Mardshad - she said he was the official at the time who kept the lists of slaves sold to the local emirs. It’s somewhere to start. Do you think you could help me find him?”

“I can make inquiries, but it’s been many years. Don’t let hope bloom, child, where it’s likely to wither.”

And with this Alix had needed to be satisfied. It had been a slim hope, but better than none.

She rose and left the shade. Alix checked the sun-dial; they’d be almost done. As she cleared away the remains of their mint tea, the earl glanced up and smiled. It gave his face a boyish cast. She could imagine him, then, somewhere more carefree; perhaps hunting across the plains on horseback, as the men of her family had always done.

She hoped he’d suggest a walk down to the port, as he’d done both previous days. Which he did. She’d been gathering her courage to ask him a favour.

Leaving the house, Alix raised her scarf. There were displaced people everywhere. Although the chance of her owner spotting her in the crowds was small, she would be careful. But with this man, she did feel safe, comfortable enough to walk with him anywhere.

They followed the steep alleys down to the port and sat on the sea-wall again, watching boats traverse the narrow reef. It was busier today. A cluster of merchants haggled over warehouse space; laden porters traipsed past, loading rowboats for the two ships offshore making ready to depart. When a stray cur lifted its leg on a coiled rope only five paces away, the earl stood.

“Let’s go,” he said, holding out a hand.

“I have something to ask you,” she said, as they walked along the line of the sea wall. “I know it’s…excessively bold, and I shouldn’t….”

“Tell me, what can I do?”

He halted, facing her; there again, that kindness in his eyes, like an oasis. Folk eddied past them.

“Can we go somewhere quieter?”

With a nod, the earl turned and led the way to the end of the sea wall. They climbed down, and followed the beach a short way. Just past the drawn-up fishing boats, they sat at the base of a low, scrub-covered dune. But now they were there, Alix didn’t know where to begin. Far easier to gaze out at the rolling waves, than to try and find the words – such simple words – to tell this man that she was a slave.

“When did you leave Cilicia?” he asked, before she had the chance.

“Twelve years ago.”

Alix sifted sand through her fingers, watching it drift down.

“Willingly?”

“You mean was I a slave then?” How easily they came, after all. “I wasn’t, unless being forced to marry was considered so.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked quietly.

Alix found that she did. That it was as if she were telling someone else’s life story, as she sat here by the sea recalling how Guy de Lusignan had sojourned in Cilicia on his way to the crusades. That her father, a baron, upon learning Guy’s elder brother was already established in court circles at Jerusalem, had seen the political advantage in securing her marriage to one of Lusignan’s crusader companions.

“You’ve heard of Hattin, of course. My husband died there. As soon as I learned of it I came here, to Jaffa, to where my sister Yeva had been wed - years earlier - to a noble. By then Saladin and his brother were attacking the coastal cities, and I thought she’d be safer in Jerusalem. It was better defended.”

Alix paused, remembering those days, and the bitter consequences she still bore of that decision.

“Far better I’d stayed behind,” she said. “By the time I convinced her husband to allow us to leave, the armies were too close. No one would take us. Then Jaffa fell; we were taken and enslaved. A small number were sold locally – I went to a farmer up the coast, but he was too poor to buy both of us. And I haven’t seen Yeva since.”

His hand took hers; she looked down, a little comforted, despite the squeeze of loss in her heart.

“So what would you have me do?” he asked.

She glanced up, reassured that she was doing the right thing in asking for his help.

“I’ve a name, the official who kept the records that year of slaves sold to local emirs. Bashir made inquiries, and it seems he still has the position. But if either of us were to approach him – well, you know how it is. Who’s he more likely to help: an escaped slave, an elderly porter, or a crusader whose king is camped with an army outside the walls?”

“Give me his name,” the earl said immediately. “I’ll look for him tomorrow.”

Alix was grateful, as they lingered a while longer and then later, as they walked holding hands back into town – she’d found the contact hard to relinquish - that he didn’t ask what she’d do if Yeva’s name wasn’t on the list. That he didn’t make her face the death of yet another hope.

And it came. Two days later, when he arrived for his session with Bashir, she could tell instantly from the compassion in his face that the answer he brought was not the one she needed. She looked sharply away, blinking back tears as harsh light struck her eyes off the pool.

“Then I will never see her again,” Alix said dully.

“There’s no other way we could…”

“No.” Alix cut him off. “Those not sold locally were sent to Aleppo, to go to the harems or….”

She faltered. _Darling Yeva…my playful, bright-eyed confidante, my protector…darling Yeva, who could be anywhere. Who will protect you?_ There was no way of finding her now. Ever.

The earl took her in his arms. Her first impulse was to push him away. But the need to be strong – there’d be a lifetime for that – was suddenly outweighed by her need for comfort, which was here, and readily offered, in his embrace. Her tears fell, moistening his tunic.

And when she’d done weeping, he led her to the small table. That day there was no poring over the scrolls with Bashir. Instead he sat with her in the shade, and they drank mint tea together, and even in the midst of her sorrow he managed to make her smile. And she felt, with great fear, her heart unfurling a little, and knew that that just wouldn’t do. That she must keep a firm watch on it, because he was only here while the army was rebuilding Jaffa and when that was done, he would be gone.

So no - she would keep a firm grip on it. She would ignore the tenderness with which she wanted to push back that errant fringe. She would remember that when the army did move on, it would be to Jerusalem. And that this was where she must go also, to find the true bedrock on which her life rested.

                                           -----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
“Where do you go every afternoon, master?” Much asked suspiciously, sorting the garments that had been drying in the sun.

“To read and drink tea with a porter and an escaped slave.”

Much scowled.

“Well there’s no need to scoff, I was just asking. If you don’t want to tell me, then fine, don’t.”

“It’s true,” protested Robin, but Much had already huffed past him into the tent to put away their things.

Shrugging, he took up his bow and began the walk into town, as he did at the same time each day. There was comfort in the routine, a respite from the discontent which had dogged him since Acre. Each passing week seemed to sink him further under its weight. The daily round of patrols and construction tasks, the weapon drills, the stretches of idleness, all of these familiar things had just made him feel the weight of it even more.

It was as if a veil had been placed between himself and the world around him. Everything was still there, everything happened the same way it always had, only now the way he saw it had changed.

The only new thing to come into his life, to help offset this malaise, had been Alix. That afternoon when he’d drifted out to the grove, the last thing he’d expected to find had been a spirited woman fending off thugs, men who thought they had license to do anything here. Nor had he expected to find tenderness.

He returned to that often. A small enough thing, but sometimes at night - when the images in his head seemed overwhelming - like a child casting about for some favourite thing to hold onto after a nightmare, he would latch onto that moment when she’d been tending his arm. At the time, it had disconcerted him. It was so at odds with the life they led here. Robin couldn’t remember the last time anyone – other than Much – had treated him with such gentleness. He’d needed to turn his face away, to hide the threat of tears.

These outings had become essential for him, although the quiet-spoken translations of the old man gave him more reason each day to question what they were doing here. He resolved, during those tranquil afternoons, that if there was any way he could influence Richard towards making peace, then he would try and find it.

And after these sessions, he’d walk out with Alix, their path taking them either down to the sea, or – like today -up to the shaded gardens by the citadel, with its ruined gates, and he would find peace of a different kind. There was a poise about her that calmed him; he’d noticed it first that day at the grove. Dishevelled from the attack – arm bloodied, garments disordered – still she’d quickly composed herself to tend him.

He watched her now. Her movements were always fluid, graceful. She pushed back strands of hair that escaped the scarf, framing her forehead; straight brows, tapering down at the outer edges, were drawn in as she considered something he’d said. She looked up; grey, almond-shaped eyes, and he was struck again by the clarity of those dark-rimmed irises. There was a quality of stillness about her; part watchfulness, he guessed, a mistrust that the world and those in it could ever be found trustworthy or kind. Whatever it was, it provoked in him the deepest urge to prove to her that he could be both.

He had to ask her to repeat what she’d said.

It made the news most unwelcome, next morning, that he and Much were to return with the king to Acre. There’d been a constant trickle of men back there, finding Jaffa too tame for their liking.

“Enough is enough,” Richard stormed, pacing in front of his tent. “I’ll allow they need some whoring and drinking to regain their spirits, but I’ll not have this, not when it’s compromising our work here. Saddle up Robin, you and your manservant; I’ll send for the others. We leave immediately.”

“Much,” Robin said urgently, once they were out of hearing, "If I give you directions, can you get a message to someone in the town?”

“I’ll not be able to catch you up, if I do.”

He realised this was true; thought quickly.

“Find someone then, anyone.”

Much was back a short while later with a bleary-eyed, dishevelled squire.

“Says his master’s in Acre,” explained Much. “Found him quaffing ale behind their tent. At this time of day…” he dropped the squire’s arm in disgust, “...you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Never mind that now, Much. Here.” Robin handed the youth some coins. “Same again when I get back, if you deliver a message for me to a man named Bashir.”

Robin gave the squire directions to the house, and sent him on his way. The lad’s unsteady gait didn’t inspire confidence, but he could only work with what he’d been given.

In the end they were gone ten days, covering the distance two weeks had taken them in four days. Richard had them round up the pleasure-seekers. His own business consisted of having his wife and his sister Joan accompany them back to Jaffa.

They’d ridden past the killing ground in a heavy silence. It looked very different now. Blown sand covered much of what hadn’t been removed, but to Robin the images of it freshly done were as clear in his head as if it had been yesterday. He had to swallow back the bile that rushed to his throat.

“Robin,” the king said, as their road led past the plain, “take heart. This was none of your doing. Your conscience is clear.”

_And what about yours?_ Robin wanted to ask. But it wasn’t the kind of question you asked your sovereign; not when the answer was between him and the Almighty.

“Be thankful,” Richard was saying quietly, “that you’ve no need to make such decisions.”

Was he asking for understanding? For the hand of friendship to be extended again? For forgiveness, even? If he was, then Robin could grant him none of those things, not there, so close to the tattered evidence left by scavengers, and with images of that blood-soaked afternoon still etched in his mind.

They rode on in silence.

Robin’s spirits lifted some days later, when the long sweep of coastline brought the terraces of Jaffa into view. The sedate pace of their approach, flanking the royal party past dunes and sand-humped stone ruins, seemed interminable. All he wanted to do was kick heels to his mount and fly down that last stretch of road, to find Bashir and resume where they’d left off, knowing that Alix would be waiting, anticipating her welcome. 

But as they plodded past the bazaar, Robin forced himself to re-consider. There was no doubt he found solace in her company, and she in his. When he’d been forced to return the news of her sister, her distress had clutched at his heart; he’d wanted nothing more than to soothe her cares away. And once she was folded in his arms, it had been hard to let her go.

_Is that what I should do now?_ Robin recognised tenderness and affection when he saw it; something which having found here, he almost couldn’t bear to surrender.

But if they were drawn to each other, was this fair? When the rebuilding was done, the army would move on. Alix had suffered hardship enough, he knew, without adding to this a parting he could avoid by severing their connection now. He’d been absent ten days, after all. Perhaps it was the right time.

So with this resolve – and Robin was glad these reflections had only surfaced near Jaffa, leaving him something to look forward to while in Acre – he accompanied the royal party into camp, pushing away the persistent thoughts of where he truly wished to be.

                                       ----------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
It was odd, Alix thought, the first day the earl didn’t appear. But he was, after all, a soldier under command; he could have been given some unexpected task.

The second and third days, she began to worry. Had something happened? It wasn’t like him; surely, if he was detained by some responsibility, he’d have sent word. Which made her afraid for his safety. Had the men he’d confronted decided to take revenge? Had some new conflict flared, in the camp, or in the town? She knew so little about him. But what she did know made Alix certain he wouldn’t have simply stopped coming by without letting them know the reason.

One morning she walked to within twenty paces of the work taking place on the walls. She waited in the shade of an arch, trying to gather her courage. Beyond the men working, she could see the spread of tents in the grove, and quailed at the idea of walking brazenly amongst them, with no real idea where to look for the earl. It was wholly impractical. Her recent experience had reminded her to act with caution. So after an hour, Alix turned and walked back to her lodging, keeping her scarf firmly in place.

After that, her feelings veered from helplessness to anger, both at him, for staying away, and at herself for caring. By the end of the week, Alix had convinced herself it was for the best. That experience was done, that whisper of possibility gone.

And so she ceased her daily visits to Bashir, which had been made solely in the hope her crusader would come again. There was no reason to go there so frequently now; none at all.


	4. Somewhere

_That’s quite enough._

Much fidgeted, watching surreptitiously as for the fourth afternoon in a row Robin sat, moody and listless, by the door of the tent. He’d rebuffed all attempts at conversation; nothing new, but this was worse. And since their return, he’d given no sign of resuming his trips into town.

Their purpose was no longer a mystery. The next time he’d asked Robin about it, on the way back from Acre, he’d received essentially the same answer. Much had decided, then, that it must be true. But his master had said little more, leaving Much with a curiosity that Robin’s current mood gave him a good excuse to try and satisfy.

Robin hadn’t been the same for some time now. Much couldn’t pinpoint exactly when things had changed. Picking up that scroll in Acre had been odd, but in a way that was typical; Robin never did what everyone else expected. Since they’d been boys, he was always the one to dare the most, to suggest the most outlandish ways to circumvent the rules. It had got them into plenty of trouble, but that never mattered; where Robin led, he followed. Even if that meant coming to war.

And this had been hell. There was no other way to describe it. Just as you thought you might have gotten used to one thing – perhaps battling the Saracens by the walls of Acre – suddenly it all changed, and became something else. Suddenly you were standing by, helpless, as unarmed prisoners were slaughtered. Or you were coping with the rigours of a march, or illness, or harassment by the enemy, and then you were fighting a bloody great battle, one of those days of complete madness where the slice and whirl of blades and maces, and the hum of arrows in the air all around, left you wondering – in the space between blows – how you’d survive even the next minute, let alone the entire day.

And always, everywhere you turned, death. Not the childhood death of a pet, with an adult there to gently explain it away. Not the quiet passing of an elder near their time. No, this was death at its most brutal, at its most ugly, flung at you in every possible way: split skulls, crushed and severed limbs, mutilated corpses, horror piling upon horror until you wondered what could have happened to make the world go quite this berserk.

But what kept Much sane was, he knew exactly why he was there: to keep them both alive, and safe, and to come out of it at the other end with something of themselves left. And after all they’d suffered recently, Much could see its effects. His master hardly slept, those last few nights of the march south, or the first few nights in camp. Much had watched to make sure he was eating; that was something, at least.

Nothing, though, had given Robin back a hint of his old self until he’d started making those afternoon outings. Which was why Much set out that afternoon, determined to find out if the squire he’d secured for Robin’s errand had actually performed it.

Of course he hadn’t; claimed he couldn’t find the house.

“Imbecile, I suppose that didn’t stop you spending the coin? No, I thought not. Well, your master will just have to owe it.”

Thought a while later, as he went up the wrong lane for the third time, that perhaps the squire might have had some justification. All the doors looked the same. Much wondered if he’d remembered Robin’s instructions clearly – it had been a while, after all - but finally he spotted the hand-shaped door-knocker which identified the house and applied it, awaiting entrance. He took off his skull-cap, running his hands through his sticky hair, as he waited on the threshold.

He stood there a while, debating with himself how long to wait before knocking again, when he finally heard movement. The bolt clunked, and the door opened. An elderly porter, his face crinkled and brown beneath his turban, gazed up at Much.

“Hello – greetings – do you speak English?” When the old man nodded, he went on. “I’m looking for someone, but I’m not sure if this is the right house. Do you know a man named Bashir?”

“That’s me.” The porter shifted his weight, but made no move to allow Much inside. “Did the earl send you?”

“No – he doesn’t know I’m here. But he did send someone, about a fortnight ago. They were supposed to bring a message and let you know he’d be gone a while, only he couldn’t find the house. Actually, I almost couldn’t find it either. Now, I don’t know what my master’s been doing here, but – look, could I come in for a bit?”

After a moment the porter stood aside and gestured for him to enter. Much followed the old man, stepping into a courtyard which filled him with envy. So, Robin had been spending his afternoons here. With the scent of jasmine wafting about, instead of the odour of horse dung and sweat, and with shade and water instead of the pressing heat and dust of the camp…Much would have come for those things alone, and paid good coin for the privilege. 

He noticed a tea-setting for two on a small table, and thought he glimpsed movement behind a vine-covered screen, but as Bashir gestured for him to sit whoever it was remained out of sight. Probably the escaped slave; if so, they had every reason to try and avoid being seen.

“My name’s Much,” he began. “My master’s the Earl of Huntingdon, but you know that already. So look, may I ask, what was he doing here? Did he bring a scroll with him for you to read?”

“Yes,” answered the porter. “And I taught him a bit of the language. Only a little, a few phrases, but he wanted to learn.”

“I knew it was that scroll,” Much muttered.

A servant appeared then, bringing a small tray with fresh cups and more mint tea. Once these were laid out, instead of withdrawing as expected, the woman settled herself on the next bench along from them. Much glanced over. A pair of clear grey eyes met his, visible above the dark red scarf she wore.

“The messenger was supposed to tell you,” Much explained, “that we were going to Acre, and that we didn’t know how long we’d be gone. The king asked us to accompany him. Well we’re back now, as you can see. And have been for some days. But my master’s stopped coming here, and I don’t know why.”

“I do,” interrupted the woman, quiet but decisive. “He’s decided there’s nothing more for him here.”

“No, that’s not true! He wants to come, I know he does. At the moment he just sits around all morose and…being in this place is enough to do that to any man, believe me, but this is worse. At least when he was coming around here he seemed a bit more himself. It gave him something to look forward to.”

“So why are you here?” asked Bashir. “It’s your master’s decision not to visit us. Why don’t you talk to him?”

“Because – well, if there’s something he doesn’t want to talk about, and he can be very stubborn, then nothing I can say will budge him. I just thought – I just wondered…” He trailed off, and looked at the servant thoughtfully. “Did he talk much with you?”

The woman hesitated.

“Yes, he did,” she finally admitted. “Most days, after they were finished, he and I would go for a walk.”

“Ah.” A part of the puzzle had just fitted into place. “Then you don’t think – I mean, this is a lot to ask I know, but if I was to escort you back with me to the camp…”

“No!” both of them replied in unison.

“Impossible,” the woman reiterated.

“Oh. I just thought that if you spoke with him – but no, I see that, it’s a very bad idea. In fact, it probably wasn’t a good idea me coming here at all, but it just seemed he had some unfinished business. And I had to try something, to snap him out of it.” Much downed the tea, and rose. “Thank you for seeing me, and for the tea. It’s not just mint, is it?”

“No. It’s mint and fennel.” Much thought he heard a smile in the woman’s voice.

“I don’t suppose,” he said, deciding to try one last thing, “that you’ve any message for him?”

The woman was silent, grey eyes considering.

“Tell him,” she said, after a while, “that I asked of him if he has run out of questions.”

This time he was sure of it; the smile softened her eyes.

“Right, I will – run out of questions….thank you, both of you. I’ll tell him.”

The old porter accompanied him to the street, closing the door with the hand-shape on it behind him.

                                           ------------------------------------------------------------------  
   
Robin had wondered, more than once, if he’d been ungrateful, taking Much to task for his meddling.

Knew it for sure now, when he couldn’t ignore the thump of his heart and the eagerness with which he clasped Alix’s hands and she his, and when all he wanted to do was sweep the scarf back from her face and see the dark fall of her hair frame her face…. 

_I shouldn’t have done that_.

He pulled back, appalled at the liberty he’d taken, but Alix just looked up at him and serenely removed the scarf, before stepping into his arms. _I’m of your faith_. Of course; she was from Cilicia. He drew her in, holding her close against him. She seemed to settle there, like a dove folding its wings into a nest.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured into her hair.

“And I you,” she said softly, against his chest.

They walked out, up to the high gardens, to sit in the shade there. Palm fronds clacked overhead, moved by a desultory breeze. The sound of construction work in the lower town, and on the nearby citadel, seemed muffled by the heat of the day; not loud enough to intrude, simply hovering at the edge of awareness. Alix’s scarf was firmly back in place.

Neither spoke. Robin felt the edges of his discontent soften and blur; revisiting Acre had solidified it, until it was like a rock in his mind, tying his thoughts to it and dragging them constantly down. But here, with Alix, he felt some reprieve. He leaned back against the palm trunk, closing his eyes. Here, he could step outside the arena of war, and just be himself. He could feel some of the knots slipping untied, as sun and shadow played across his eyelids, and as his body relaxed.

“What is it, crusader? What troubles you?”

His eyes snapped open. He was angry, for a moment. What business had she, to ask something that probed at the heart of him? Couldn’t she leave it be, and let him escape everything, just for a while?

But the flippant reply that would normally deflect such a question died on his lips. There was sympathy in her eyes, and the promise of understanding. It occurred to him, then, the level of trust she’d placed in him. She walked out with him freely, when each time there was a risk of her being discovered. She’d told him her own background. Should he do less than confide in her?

“Did you hear about Acre?” he began. “About what happened to the prisoners?”

“Rumours only,” Alix replied. “It’s hard to know, in a time of war, what’s fact and what isn’t.”

“Well this was,” he said bluntly.

“So many….” she murmured. “And this is what troubles you then, that you had a part in it? Did you?”

“Not directly,” said Robin. “But I was there. And I did nothing to stop it.”

“You can’t stop the tide of war. You mustn’t blame yourself, these things are the will of kings. We're merely bound to them.”

Robin was silent. That was just it, wasn’t it? Where did his own will begin and end? Having sworn his allegiance, was he nothing more than a sword to be wielded wherever the Lionheart chose? This had never been a problem before; it was now, his faith in the king having been so deeply shaken.

“There is more,” Alix said quietly.

“So much more.” Robin shook his head, with a bitter smile.

“Tell me.”

And so he did. He told her the depth of his admiration for the king; of his naïve, youthful expectations, all of which war had sullied and broken.

“The worst is, he has done this – this terrible thing – and yet….he’s my king, Alix, my liege. I’ve pinned all my hopes on him, devoted my life to his service, and without it…if I don’t have that….”

“Then you mustn’t doubt him,” Alix said firmly.

Robin looked away, overcome. His breath caught, and tears stung his eyes.

“But I do doubt,” he said hoarsely. “And I can’t go back.”

“No, but you can go on. What matters is who you choose to become.” Then she touched his arm, forcing him to face her. “ _And you will not make his crime yours.”_

In all the time he knew her – both then, and after – it was the only time she spoke her words with such vehemence. And immediately, as if she regretted it, Alix offered up others.

“Take heart, my lord. Remember why you love him as your king.” She reached for his hand, her touch soothing. “Remember he didn’t make you participate. He knows you. He knows his men. That’s one reason you follow him, because he knew better than to put you in that position. Because he is a true leader of men.”

This wasn’t what Robin had expected, when he’d come to meet her. Tender words, undemanding affection, yes – but he’d forgotten she was a baron’s daughter, that she’d once been on the fringes of the court at Jerusalem. She was no stranger to these things.

He gazed out over the heat-glazed rooves of the town, its terraces spilling down to the sea, thinking over what Alix had said. There was something important there, some idea that eluded him. He thought of the king, as they’d ridden past the site of the slaughter: regretting the need for such decisions, but without making apology for it. _He knows you. He knows his men_. It hit Robin then. Richard had known it all along; had known Robin better than he knew himself. He would have disobeyed. If the king had ordered him to participate, it would have been the order which broke those bonds that secured him to king, duty and country. And the Lionheart was far too shrewd to break such a trusted weapon.

It was growing late, the sun westering. They’d been each wrapped in their own thoughts, only their fingers linked, but once Robin stirred it was like breaching a sanctuary. Slowly they made their way down from the garden, the smell of spices from the street stalls making his mouth water.

“Shall I walk you home?” he asked, once they reached the labyrinth of lanes in the lower town.

Alix shook her head.

“No. But I’ll be at the house tomorrow, if you will?”

“I will be.”

Robin ran his thumbs absently over the back of her hands. Their eyes held. He would have given anything not to be in a busy street at that moment, to be able to see if the message he saw in her eyes translated into the touch of her lips.

“It’s Robin, by the way,” he said instead. “My name.”

Lifting a hand, he smoothed the edge of her scarf back from her face. No more.

“I’m Robin, of Locksley.”

“Of somewhere then,” she smiled.

“Yes.” She understood.

Robin released her hands and walked away, wishing it was already tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update mid-October, at the earliest!
> 
> As mentioned, I am sorry for the comment moderation, but events this week have made it necessary. All genuine, non-offensive comments will still be posted.


	5. Oasis

Alix sat straight-backed in the small, dim room she knew as home, twisting and untwisting a tassel of her scarf from around one finger. She was late; he’d be waiting for her.

She wondered what Yeva would say, if she were here. Well, that was easy. _Nice smile. Kind eyes. But he will leave, baby deer, and you will be heartbroken._ And to prove her point she would flirt with him a bit, but not too seriously – and just because that was what older sisters did. Well, maybe not all of them. But it’s what Yeva would have done.

Alix hunted for a kerchief. Unable to bear the cheerless, solitary space any longer, she draped her scarf around her head and shoulders and went out into the glare. It was no use pretending she had a choice. She could no more stay away from this man than she could hold back the sun in the morning, or return to Jerusalem just by wishing it.

As she walked through the sun-baked lanes – most sensible folk were indoors, this time of day – Alix knew she was fortunate. After four years of being _property_ , this was freedom. To have her own room, squalid though it might be; to be able to walk out, to go anywhere she wished, at any time of day. To be able to meet a man freely, to enjoy his conversation, to have her heart tremble when he held her…..these were things she’d never experienced, not at home in Cilicia, nor during her marriage.

_Robin of Locksley._ She tested the name on her tongue, savouring it. She must ask him about this place, his homeland. She would ask him today. Reaching the house that was once her sister’s, Alix lifted the knocker and waited for Bashir to let her in.

Robin rose when she entered the courtyard, and took her hands. He stood looking down at her, hair the colour of a lion pelt, warmth in his gaze, and with that smile that lit up his eyes and made him look far too youthful to be here.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he murmured.

“Perhaps, if I had better judgement, I wouldn’t have.”

But the slight squeeze she gave his hands said otherwise. Robin resumed his seat beside Bashir, drawing her down beside him. Alix hesitated; she would have taken her usual place behind the screen. But Bashir had begun his instruction, unconcerned, and there was no one else there to see or care. The rest of the household, except for a few servants, had fled weeks ago, when word came of the approaching armies.

She sat quietly, listening to their exchanges, and once the day’s reading was done she and Robin walked out as usual. But something had changed. He returned to the camp later and later each day. An understanding existed between them; it was there in his hand on her elbow, guiding them through the crowded lanes, or in the brush of her fingertips along his arm, or as they sat in the upper gardens it was there in the puff of breath against her temple as he made some droll comment that made them both chortle.

Laughing! What place in her world for laughter? And yet.

Alix allowed herself to be drawn in; allowed herself to _feel_. She’d known what to expect, that day she returned to the house. Although, not quite true. She’d never known what it was to feel _this_. She wouldn’t name it. Just as she resolutely ignored the progress being made on the walls, something which would measure their time together as surely as the line of shadow on the sun dial marked the passing hours of the days.

“What’s that?” Robin asked over her shoulder a few days later, as they dawdled along through the bazaar.

Alix had stooped to pick up from a vendor’s rug a headdress that caught her eye. She stood examining it, allowing the attached coins to filter through her fingers. Flinched, when a hand with long yellow nails snaked out and snatched it from her.

“You’ve no business touching that,” the vendor hissed, flecks of drool at the side of his mouth.

Robin stepped forward, holding out his hand.

“The lady is just looking,” he said smoothly. “As am I.” 

“But it’s valuable,” whined the man. “She’s no business….”

Robin waggled his fingers. Eyeing his sword, the stall-holder relented, shoving the headpiece into Robin’s hand.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alix said. “It just reminded me….it’s a piece from home, you see. I used to wear ones like it as a girl.”

She remembered Yeva’s wedding, especially, but didn’t say so as he lifted the headdress, its coins sparkling in the sunlight. The vendor shifted nervously, as Robin pushed back her scarf – _may I?_ – and settled the stiff-edged cap, with its embroidered bands and its clinking decoration, down upon her forehead. He stood back, gazing at her, and she saw admiration in his eyes, and something more intense, but then she happened to glance up and the moment was lost as she recognised Harun, right there, not ten paces away, haggling with another vendor over the weight of some spices.

Panicked, Alix looked about for Sabah; she would be here, somewhere. At the same time, she lifted the headdress off and shoved it back at the man, hushing his protests.

“We need to leave, now,” she whispered, hurriedly re-draping her scarf.

“No lady – see, you took it off in such a hurry that one of the links has broken – here, see? You must pay for it, and take it with you.”

Alix glanced again at Harun. He hadn’t seen her, but soon his business would be concluded….the canny stallholder followed her glance.

“I think the lady would prefer I make no fuss?” he purred shrewdly.

Fighting the urge to run, she waited while Robin settled with the merchant, too rattled to protest. That done, she clutched his arm and drew him away. _Calm. Walk calmly._ Only once did she look back, and that was in time to see the treacherous vendor standing beside Harun and pointing their way.

She did run, then. Turned a corner and barrelled straight into Sabah, who stood chatting with a local sitting on a bench outside her door. The scarf fell, revealing her face; her eyes met Sabah’s. Instinctively, she gave her former owner a shove that sent her straight into the seated woman’s lap. Alix grabbed Robin’s hand and fled from Sabah’s shouts and curses. It was difficult to run in her skirt, and the heat, but fear kept Alix going. They ducked through arches, along twisting lanes, once sheltering in the entrance to a bath-house for some minutes, where she gasped for breath as they listened for sounds of pursuit.

When they started to draw glances from patrons, they slipped out into the street.

“Tell me where you live; I’ll take you home,” Robin said, running his hands up and down her arms.

“No.” Alix shook her head firmly. She didn’t want him to see where she lived, she was too ashamed.

Robin considered a moment.

“Come on then. Back to the house; Bashir will let us in.”

Once inside, Alix couldn’t stop trembling. She’d come so close to ruining everything. So careless, walking about openly, and then allowing Robin to remove her scarf. _Beyond foolish._

“Shhh – it’s alright. You’re safe now.”

Robin held her face gently with both hands, eyes boring into hers, to make her feel the truth of it. He gathered her in and held her close and Alix knew – had long known - what she was going to do.

“Stay with me,” she whispered. “Stay here, tonight.”

No answer; she felt his lips brush against her hair.

“I can’t,” he said, after a while. “I can’t be away that long without leaving word. But tomorrow – if you feel the same….?”

He stepped back, and lifted her face with a finger beneath her chin. Then he leaned in, and kissed her, with his sun-roughened lips. His arms wrapped firmly about her, pressing her against him, and she gave herself over to it, both the promise and the pleasure of his nearness, of being with _him_ , of the taste of his lips on hers. When he broke the kiss, it was only to stay there, leaning his forehead against hers.

“You never know, you might change your mind,” he joked.

“Perhaps,” she teased, “you will have to convince me.”

But at that Robin drew back, and Alix wondered what troubled him.

“Listen – stay here, you’ll be fine. I’ll just go out and find us something to eat.”

He was gone so long Alix wondered if it was he who’d changed his mind. But eventually he returned, with a meal of sardines, bread and dates. They took this up the stairs to the roof, and sat on cushions to eat as the tenor of sound in the streets changed from day to evening, and as the light deepened to a hue that made sea and sky blend on the horizon. And Alix could have been eating ashes, for all that she tasted any of the food. Robin, and the thought of being with him, filled her to the brim. She had to fight to keep her hands steady, afraid they’d betray the trembling of her heart as she allowed her senses to absorb every detail of that balmy evening, committing it all to memory.

                                          -----------------------------------------------------------------

If Robin had left the house any faster, anyone would think he’d fled.

He stopped at the corner of the lane, taking a careful look to see if they’d been followed earlier. If so, someone could be waiting for him to leave. But there was no sign of it. To be sure, he did a circuit twice around the surrounding lanes. Only when he was satisfied did he take the road that led out of town and back to the camp.

He needed the walk, to clear his head.

He’d told Alix he wouldn’t stay, but he knew that wasn’t true. And he was in danger of hating himself for it. One kiss – that was all it had taken, to know he couldn’t leave her.

He thought back to the few women he’d known on Sicily, and Cyprus – shallow, bored, they’d been like ripe fruit, ready to be plucked. So he had. Without qualm. That each had mostly possessed a hard core only made it that much easier to discard them when done.

He thought of the sleaziness of Acre; the brazenness of the men and women in the brothels, who didn’t care what was seen and what wasn’t. He wasn’t proud to have gone there. Perhaps war was an excuse, but it didn’t make it less sordid. Afterwards he’d felt jaded, ashamed.

And now Alix. He’d not hesitated, before, to take what was offered. But with her, it was more; perhaps it was too much. Which was why he’d fled the house; he could admit it now, as he tramped through the midst of the tents and the dust of the grove to the one he shared with Much.

“No,” Much said, when Robin asked if the king had been looking for him. “Only light duties, as we went to Acre. The next patrol you’re on isn’t until the day after tomorrow. Besides, if he did need you, I’d know where to look, wouldn’t I?”

Much lay on his pallet, watching Robin shove a few things into a bag.

“Not that one, it needs mending. Here, this one.”

He sat up, handing Robin a different shirt.

“I do hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered under his breath. “Do you?”

“Do I ever, Much?” Robin grinned.

“No – not really. Not in these matters,” Much said primly.

Robin paused what he was doing, looking at Much curiously.

“I never really asked, why did you go there?”

“Because I’ve never seen you like that before. I was worried.” Much fidgeted with the rip in the shirt. “So, will it help? Is she a distraction, like the others?”

“She’s nothing like the others,” Robin murmured.

“Oh.” Much frowned, thinking. “Then – what – more like Marian?”

“No, not like her either. She’s not like anyone else.”

Which was why, Robin thought, as he walked back into town, he must tell Alix about Marian. He had to be honest with her. But now the time had come, the words wouldn’t. Lying side by side on the cushions, stroking her hair, there was nowhere else he wanted to be. His old life seemed distant; what was real, right then, was the woman in his arms. No innocent – she’d been wed years, after all – but somehow still fresh and unspoilt, and already as dear to him as any woman, who wasn’t Marian, could ever be.

She turned slightly, melding herself closer, an invitation.

Abruptly Robin sat up, dislodging Alix. He rose and walked to the edge of the roof, looking down onto the street. An old man sat by the door opposite, chatting to his neighbour; lamps were starting to flicker on other rooftops. He heard a noise below; swung around to see Alix almost at the base of the stairs.

_Clumsy. So clumsy. What’s the matter with me?_

“Wait – Alix. Let me explain.”

Cursing, Robin tripped over a pot of herbs. He huffed, righting himself; took the steps two at a time, leaping several, but by the time he made it onto the street she was out of sight. He mimed a question to the old man, who pointed up the street. Robin hastened that way, but when he passed under the arch there was still no sign of her. Too many turns. He tried one lane, as far as the corner, then went back up to try another, the fear starting to niggle that in the gathering dark he might miss her. And if she chose to stay away, he had no way of finding her. Would never know if someone had recaptured her.

But when he returned to the arch a third time she was there, watching him.

“I saw him send you the wrong way,” she said, a reluctant smile tweaking her mouth.

He strode up – “So, you took pity on me?” - and without caring now who saw, or whether it was proper or not, Robin cupped a hand behind her head and claimed her lips with a kiss that was nothing like their first time, but deep, and urgent, as if nothing else existed in the world but _them_ , and Alix responded in kind.

“I thought you’d gone,” he whispered, finally drawing back.

He took her hand, half afraid she’d bolt again, and they returned to the house. But once Bashir had let them back in – and then discreetly disappeared – they clung together as if it were unthinkable to let the other go again, lips seeking, breaths mingling, until Robin took her hand and they hastened back up the stairs toward the roof.

But as he turned her there to face him, hesitating again, Alix drew back, her expression unreadable.

“You’ve refused me twice, now,” she said. “My people have a saying, ‘the flame’s only as bright as the tinder’s dry.’ If you don’t want this, Robin, it’s alright. We can…..”

“Hush, don’t….” Robin murmured, framing her face with his hands. “You know that’s not true. But Alix…. my lovely Alix….” – his voice faltered – “you deserve more. I can’t offer you anything. I’ve a home to return to, if I survive. And I will go back - I have to.”

“To her. There is someone?”

“Yes. We were betrothed.”

“And that’s all?”

Robin frowned, puzzled.

“What do you mean, all?”

“Well, of course you have another life, I know that. I’m not wanting to take it from you.” She sounded equally confused. “Why would I? Come.”

She gave his hands a small tug; they were back behind the latticed screen, among the cushions. He was finding it hard to concentrate. Alix removed her scarf, shaking free long, fine hair which, as she reclined on one elbow, fell down over her shoulders. One finger traced the line of his collarbone; the caress made his skin shiver.

“We can’t risk a child,” he said, softly.

He thought there was just a flicker of hesitation –wished there was more light, to be sure. But,

“There won’t be. There are herbs, I know what to do,” she reassured him.

He rolled to face her, his hand resting on her waist.

“I’ve never been free to choose, Robin,” she went on. “We marry where we’re told. So let me choose you. There’s so much ugliness everywhere, let’s find what beauty we can.”

“Beauty is all I can see,” Robin murmured.

And he couldn’t deny her – or himself – any longer. He captured her lips, drawing her in close, hands roaming almost of their own accord, as they poured all their need into deep, hungry kisses that left them breathless and craving more. They scarcely drew apart to tug at shirt, breeches, skirt, pulling free any impediment until Alix was astride him, wearing nothing but the veil of the night sky and the stars behind her head.

After the modesty of her dress, to see her like this – naked above him, her high, taut breasts exposed to the silken night air, her body all lean and toned and pale, except for the smudge of her nipples, hair falling soft and straight….when he brushed it back, he noticed discolorations on her shoulder, the marks of healed scars. He ran his fingertips gently over them, but Alix shook her hair forward again to conceal them. She was shy about nothing else. Robin watched her responses to everything he did, to each caress. Her eyes never left his, even when he reached between her thighs, when his touch there made her writhe and moan.

But when she moved position, lowering her mouth to him, there was something perfunctory about it – a tenseness in her shoulders, a jerkiness to her movements - so at odds with the naturalness of everything else she did, that he had the vague sense this was perhaps once expected of her. So, breathing evenly for control, he drew her up saying –

“Too soon.” He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

And he made her lie back, running his hands over her until he felt her relax again, knowing just how to please her but not knowing how to account for his own heightened responses, so that finally, when he entered her – _slow, go slow_ – and her breath hitched against his mouth, it was no use. He couldn’t get enough of her. She overwhelmed him, filling his senses, even as his length filled her. Twining their fingers, she urged him on; soft moans, heated whispers – some in a tongue he didn’t understand, _sireli, sireli_ – so that when the pace of his thrusts increased and pleasure tipped him over the edge, coming back down he clasped her to him, only then realising that he’d not taken her with him.

“My darling, I’m sorry…” he whispered against her neck.

His hand moved over sensitised flesh, _there_ , so that soon she shuddered as intensely as he had done, and they lay wrapped tight together, in a disarray of cushions and discarded clothes, too overcome to move or speak for a long while.

“What does it mean _? Sireli_?” Robin murmured eventually.

He shifted slightly, allowing their skin to peel apart, but keeping her close.

“It means darling….dearest….”

He tipped her face up, grazing her lips. Then they lay quietly, his fingertips languidly stroking her breast. In the distance, a dog barked, but by then the hour was late and apart from that silent.

“Did you have a special name, when you were a child?” he whispered later, against her hair.

Robin thought she wasn’t going to answer; when she did, embarrassment tinged her voice.

“Only by Yeva. She would call me _baby deer._ ”

“As in fawn? Why, because you had spots?” Robin failed to suppress a smile. “Or because your ears stuck out?”

“They do not!”

“No, that’s true,” Robin admitted, nuzzling one of them. “Then why?”

“Because whenever we got up to mischief, I was always the one who got caught. Like the new-borns, the weakest in the herd, falling behind and being picked off by the predators.”

He chuckled.

“Still not very flattering.”

“No. But she was an older sister, what do you expect?”

Hearing the pain, Robin wished he could take some of it away. He sat up, drawing her with him.

“Alix, let me help. When the rebuilding’s done, before we move on I’ll organise an escort, somehow, to see you home. To Cilicia.”

She stiffened, and didn’t answer for a moment.

“You can’t fix everything Robin, especially not this. It’s no longer my home; I must get back to Jerusalem.”

“Memories of your husband?”

“No,” she said vehemently. “The less of those I have, the better.”

Robin considered this; his intuition had been right.

“Then why? What’s so important to you there?”

Alix moved away. Gathering up her shift, she rose and covered herself, and went to lean on the top of the wall. After a moment Robin joined her, their elbows touching.

“Tell me,” he said. “Why Jerusalem?”

They looked down over the shift of shadow and moonlight on the street below. The leaves of the vine on the wall rustled; perhaps a rodent. And Alix refused to look at him, as Robin waited patiently – or at least tried to - for her answer.

                                        --------------------------------------------------------------------

She wasn’t ready to feel this way.

The time they’d been apart, a taste of the future, should have been a warning. But Alix had turned her back on wisdom.

And this was where it had led. To these days spent together, and this growing affection; moments when she longed to smooth away the deep furrow that appeared in his brow when he was concentrating, or troubled. Those times he smiled, when his expression softened, she could see a lightness there so at odds with the battle-worn crusader that she wished he could just go home, to his sweetheart, and be free of this war. Even if it meant leaving her.

Which he would do. But not tomorrow; and not tonight. No, tonight she’d experienced something her husband had never bothered to show her. To him, she’d been a diversion between his bouts of whoring and fighting. Brutish and boorish, he’d not been a man to love. Not like this one.

And she could never have felt as she did tonight, seeing Robin undressed, lean and strong beneath her hands, so alive to her touch. He'd stopped her once, to please her instead, behaviour so foreign to her that by the time he was inside her, their joining was all that she wanted. Yet he’d thought of her, sending her over that peak as well, only then content for them to lie sated together.

He took her hand now; he was waiting for an answer.

“Tell me,” he’d asked. “Why Jerusalem?”

For this question, especially, she wasn’t ready. Would he judge her? Alix judged herself, which was why she’d never told anyone. She was reluctant to tell it now.

“I’ve walked in the Garden of Olives there,” she mused instead, stalling. “I've been there at sunrise, when the tips of the newest trees – they've grafted them from the oldest – catch first light, and the foxes hunt in plain sight. And when I think of the man of peace who once walked there, it seems to me the world has just got everything so wrong. Everything.”

Robin lifted her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles. He didn’t press her for an answer; but equally, Alix knew she hadn’t given him one. Then:

“I have a son,” she said abruptly.

The brush of Robin’s thumb against the back of her hand paused.

“A son?” he said, resuming the slow movement.

“Yes. His name is René.” She withdrew her hand; if she was going to tell him, his compassion would only make her crumble. “When I left Jerusalem to find Yeva, I left him behind. You’ll think me an unnatural mother, but I never expected it would take so long. With the country so unsettled, I thought it the safest thing to do. We had a household, a companion to care for him, friends….”

“How old was he?”

“He’ll be eight now….” Her voice cracked, finally, and she didn’t spurn Robin’s embrace. The dusting of hairs on his chest tickled her face.

“And I don’t care what anyone thinks,” she said fiercely, “I’m glad I did. If I’d brought him here he’d be lost, like Yeva. At least this way, I’ve a chance of finding him.”

Saladin had spared many of the crusaders and their families when he retook Jerusalem; it had been her sole comfort, these past few years.

“But Alix,” Robin said quietly, “the Christians were all expelled. How will you find him?”

“If the city’s retaken, some of the crusader families will return. And someone, then, will surely be able to tell me something.”

Her voice quavered. There it was then, his sympathy, and beneath its flow – _oh my darling, let it come, let it come_ – Alix felt the tight bands she’d wrapped around her grief break. And when she’d finished weeping, he led her back to the cushions, giving her the chance to talk there about her boy, something she’d been denied for a very long time. 

“And stop trying to think how you might fix this,” she chided, when her reminisces eventually slowed. “Because you can’t.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” They lay quietly, gazing up.

“But perhaps,” he said, after a while – he shifted, and she felt his breath on her skin as he kissed a path down her neck, and then further - “you will need to distract me. I find a challenge hard to let go.”

“Now why do I believe that?” murmured Alix, a little breathlessly.

She buried one hand in his hair, as he moved lower.


	6. The House of Forz

"He offered what?” exclaimed Much.

“Exactly. It’s a joke.” Robin smacked the olive trunk, hard enough to shiver the lowest limbs.

“And what’s worse, he wants me to go along with Humphrey to deliver the offer to Safadin.”

“Here." Much, chewing on a fig from one of the nearby orchards, handed Robin one. “Well, you never know. He’s taken it all in good humour so far.”

“Yes. Although, when Richard told the envoy after Joan refused to marry an infidel that perhaps Safadin should turn Christian, I thought he might have gone too far.”

Much sputtered round his fig.

“I didn’t know that!”

“It’s true,” Robin grinned, in spite of himself.

It was typical. The land in ruins, the people suffering, both armies bleeding, and what could have been a legitimate peace process had descended into farce. Richard had started with unrealistic demands. It had progressed from there to offering his sister in marriage to Safadin, her dowry being the coastal cities and free access of pilgrims to Jerusalem. That Saladin accepted this showed he was prepared to play along; that Joan had refused when she found out, in a display of impressive temper, proved that she wasn’t.

Robin couldn't help but see the humour in it.

“What’ll he think of next…” Much was saying. “Well, he’s thought of it I suppose, his niece. And after that he’ll have run out of handy female relatives.”

“He doesn’t need any more. It’s all been a ruse to him, but it’s served its purpose.”

Robin wanted peace. Had been glad to learn negotiations were underway, soon supplanted by anger when he saw what Richard was about. Even so, he had to admire it: gaining intelligence of the enemy’s mood and strength, probing potential divisions between Saladin and his brother, and exchanging courtesies and gifts while preparing to move his army out of Jaffa.

At such times Robin felt the old ties still knit strongly. The king hadn’t changed; war had simply revealed the extent of his ruthlessness. Jaffa, and Alix, had dulled the edges of his anger, but at night, when the bloody images woke him, sweating, he wondered if any hint of his thoughts would be visible the next time he faced the king. 

_You did this, yet I follow you. I’ll follow you until you die, or I do, or until you ask me to lift my blade against innocents or the helpless or unarmed men. Some days I despise myself for it; and others, I’m still proud to be your right hand._

It was the legacy, he realised, of Acre. Never again, that uncomplicated loyalty which had once made everything so simple and clear-cut.

Two days later, he rode out with Humphrey of Toron. They followed the caravan route south-east towards St Jorge de Lidde, past the orchards and the flat plain near Jaffa, entering then an expanse of dense oak, where the filtered light and the sheltering forest canopy reminded Robin of home; an echo ruined by the yellow crosses of Jerusalem on the surcoat of the man riding ahead. 

Robin drew alongside him. Humphrey glanced his way; they’d met on Cyprus, months earlier. A man about his age, of pleasant, regular features, and a gentle one at that, ill-fitted to martial life. He had a stammer outweighed by his knowledge of Arabic; due to the complexity of these negotiations, he'd been a useful choice for an envoy.

He’d once been named candidate for the throne of Jerusalem; Robin couldn’t imagine a less likely contender. Apparently Humphrey had thought so too, preferring to offer his support to Guy de Lusignan. But his presence in Jerusalem during those years made him Robin’s best hope of obtaining the information Alix needed.

“Can you tell me anything else? Any names?” he’d asked her, the next time they’d been together.

They spent more time at the house than before. After the scare at the bazaar, Alix was reluctant to be out as much. He had no argument with this; it suited them both.

“My closest friend was Marie, Joscelin of Edessa’s cousin,” she’d told him, refreshing their tea. “Joscelin was widowed, she often looked after his two young daughters. René and I spent time a lot of time with them. When I left it was her I asked to watch over him, to make sure he was safe.”

“Joscelin was killed at Acre, as far as I know. I can ask.”

“Then someone here might know where his family has gone?”

He heard the hope she’d tried to contain.

“Sir Humphrey,” he said now, briskly, over the soft clink of harness, “you knew Joscelin of Edessa?”

“Yes. For m…m...many years.”

“He wasn’t with your party on Cyprus. Did he survive the siege?”

“He…died….last year, at Acre.”

“I thought so. And his family? Do you know what happened to them?”

“Why…do….you ask?”

“I know someone who needs to find a cousin of his, a lady named Marie.”

“Who wants to know?” Humphrey regarded him curiously.

“The widow of Thierry de Forz.”

“Ah. A…lovely….girl, I remember her. Far too good for that thug she m..m…married. He spent far too much… time…with my stepfather.”

“Reynald de Chatillon?”

Humphrey gave a curt nod. He didn’t reply, muttering something about deserving beheading under his breath. Robin recalled what he knew of this: after Hattin, Guy de Lusignan and Reynald had been taken to Saladin’s tent. The sultan had performed the act himself, there being a long history of animosity between the two. The most recent provocation, Reynald's breach of truce in raiding a Saracen caravan, had sparked the chain of events leading to Hattin. Humphrey himself had been captured, and taken to Damascus.

There was plenty he’d have liked to discuss with Humphrey; perhaps he could help him with his Arabic, once the army moved on. But for now, he had to focus on the whereabouts of Marie and the boy.

“Not a man who’d have approved of our current task,” was all he said of Reynald. “But Sir Humphrey, about Joscelin’s cousin….”

His companion held up a hand, reining in. Turning north at the crossroads where the caravan road branched towards Egypt, they’d emerged from the woods. Ahead lay the town of St Jorge de Lidde, tucked among olive groves at the end of a long valley. But it was something much nearer that had caught Humphrey’s attention. The two men took cover, watching as a large group of nobles – many bearing hooded falcons – rode down the northern slopes; bird carcases slapped against their squires’ saddles.

“There’s Safadin,” Robin observed quietly. “Do you recognise any of the others?”

Humphrey watched a long moment, needing to be certain.

“Yes. It’s R….R…one of Conrad’s men, Reginald of Sidon.”

Exchanging a glance, they drew back further for concealment.

“Down from Tyre then?”

Humphrey nodded. They both knew the implications. If Guy’s rival for the throne – Conrad of Montferrat, holed up in Tyre, and since Acre refusing to send aid to Richard – was opening separate negotiations, this was a division which Saladin would gleefully exploit.

The hawking party reached the road and headed down the valley. Robin and Humphrey turned their mounts, spurring to a gallop back along the Jaffa road.

Amidst the urgency, his opportunity to quiz Humphrey was lost. Meanwhile, there was a second approach he needed to make – to the new Count of Jaffa, Geoffrey de Lusignan, who’d taken up residence in a house just below the citadel.

Had even less success here. After welcoming him, the Count led him out to tour the improvements being made to the citadel’s defences.

“Yes, I remember Lady de Forz,” Geoffrey said, when Robin mentioned her. “I’m envious, if you’re asking for the reason I think. I wouldn’t have minded lifting her skirts myself.”

Robin looked at Geoffrey – the aquiline nose he shared with his brother, wide-set eyes, slightly untamed beard and hair - and resisted the urge to break it. Decided he didn’t like him any better than he did his brother.

“She’s trying to track down family members,” he improvised, changing his approach. He wouldn’t always be here to protect Alix; the less a man like this knew of her circumstances the better. “The only connection she has is Marie of Edessa, Joscelin’s cousin. We need to know where she might have gone after Jerusalem fell.”

“Well, I can’t really help you. The families that were ransomed mostly went to Tyre, Tripoli or Alexandria. None of them will be in Tyre now, of course, unless they’re in Conrad’s party. Now, I want to show you this…”

Which had been the extent of the Count’s interest, and of the information that Robin was willing to share. And it was the reason he was here now, waiting outside the king’s tent while he finished issuing instructions to a fleet captain.

The king bade the man farewell, and then gestured Robin inside. He sank into a chair, motioning Robin to do likewise.

“Ah Robin, would we could trade places for a day," Richard said, scrubbing at his face. “I’ve Ascalon in ruins, destroyed strongholds all the way between here and Jerusalem, not to mention a waiting Saracen army…Tyre up north like a thorn in my backside, the snake Montferrat poised to bite, and a captain of my guard who not only tires of war but who questions my judgement. So, have I left anything out?”

Robin met the king’s gaze.

“I’ve said no word against you. Ever.”

“Come Robin, don’t treat me as a fool. We both know if this was a marriage bed you’d be looking elsewhere by now.”

“There’s nowhere else to look. We both know that.”

“Loyalty by necessity. Is this what we’re come to, then?”

“Loyalty by oath,” snapped Robin, losing patience.

The king leaned back, considering.

“I’ll take that, for now. But Robin – a hand that’s clenched will last only so long before it loses its strength, and begins to tremble. I need a right hand that’s firm, and unwavering. I need one I can rely on.”

“Are you asking me to swear again?” challenged Robin.

“And if I were?” the Lionheart asked, his voice deceptively soft.

Robin looked him squarely in the eye.

“A king must be just, else what hope is there for the common folk?”

“Come, Robin, this is war,” chided Richard. “Those in command must make hard choices.”

“As must any man.”

“Doesn’t an oath absolve you of such choices? That’s the price of allegiance, Robin; are you willing to pay it?”

Robin knew he was on dangerous ground. He thought of what Alix had said, that afternoon by the citadel. _He didn’t make you participate._ It all came down to that one, simple thing. However barbaric the deed, Richard hadn’t stained him with it; in that, Robin’s faith hadn’t been misplaced. 

“You are my king,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I serve no other, and never will. I’ll protect and defend you, to my last breath. Do you want more from me than that?”

Richard leaned heavily on one elbow, stroking his chin.

“The king but not necessarily the cause, heh Robin?” he said quietly.

“War changes a man.”

“Yes, I fear that’s true.”

Sighing, the king straightened. He called in his servant, sent for wine.

“So,” he said at last, moving on, “if we were to trade places today, what would I get in your stead? I hear you’ve a regular woman in the town.”

Robin frowned, nonplussed that his movements were known.

“And is she why you’re here today? A personal matter, you said.”

“Yes. Her husband died at Hattin. After that she had business in Jaffa, and was taken captive here before Jerusalem fell.”

“So she received none of the compensation Saladin gave the Hattin widows?”

“He did?”

“Yes. Quite generous too, I believe.” Richard rose, and went to a chest along one wall of the tent. He withdrew a bag of coins. “So, I refuse to be outdone.”

He passed the gift to Robin.

“Sire, that is….very generous.”

“But not what you came here to ask. What did you want?”

“I’m not sure I can….”

“Don’t be coy. What did you want?” the king repeated.

“The rights to her sister’s house. It’s unoccupied, the current owner’s fighting in Saladin’s forces.”

“Shouldn’t you take that request to Geoffrey?”

“I started to. I changed my mind.”

"Ah…so, you want it done on the quiet? Well, I’ll see what I can do.” Richard sipped his wine, set the goblet back down. “So, just how attached are you to this woman? You know we’ll be leaving here in a week or so?”

“Which is why I’m doing this,” Robin answered.

“You obviously care for her,” observed the king. “Will you come back, when you’re free?”

“I’ve….made no promises.”

“Tsssk, Robin – you, of all people, I thought you would understand women better.”

“Whatever her feelings, there’s someone who matters more. She has a young son, one she needs to try and find.”

“Any idea where?”

“Perhaps Tripoli, I’m hoping Humphrey can tell me for certain.”

Richard gave a low whistle.

“That’s some journey…”

“I know,” Robin said bleakly.

“Well, she’ll have the house, for now. Her boy might have to wait until all this is over. Which I hope will be soon. If we leave by the end of the month, I’m hoping we’ll have taken Jerusalem soon after Christmas. Then – by the grace of God – we can all leave this place, and go home."

                                                -----------------------------------------------------------------

It felt odd, returning to the seamstress’ dwelling as a customer, rather than to sleep there in the tiny room on the first floor. This had been the least of the benefits to flow from her change of fortune. Tucking the package under her arm, Alix walked towards home.

Robin was there. Setting her purchases down she went to him, glad to see him, but unable now to stop counting the days and hours in her head.

“I saw Humphrey again today,” he said, once they were apart and sitting down. “He said the same, Joscelin’s family fled to Tripoli after Jerusalem fell.”

“And Marie? Was she included in Balian’s ransom payment?”

“He doesn’t know for sure. But there’s no reason to suppose otherwise, most of the wealthy families were. And Joscelin was a prominent man.”

Alix’s eyes shimmered. After so long, to _know_ – well, almost. The only way she could find out for sure was to go there herself. She said as much to Robin.

“You know that’s not possible. Not at the moment,” he said gently.

“Of course it is. Caravans still pass through.”

“Yes, and from here the journey takes more than two weeks. You know that, just as you know how vulnerable you’d be, travelling alone.”

Alix shook her hand free and walked away from him.

“I have the means now,” she said stubbornly. “I could hire guards.”

“And how would you know who to trust? Listen to me,” he said urgently, coming up behind her. He turned her to face him. “It isn’t safe. We don’t know how many of these caravans make it through unscathed. And forget bandits, all it takes is one opportunist, one unscrupulous trader…any single night, and you could just disappear. There’s a lot of desert out there to hide a crime in.”

“What do you care? You won’t be here.”

“I do care,” he whispered. “And that’s just it. I won’t be here, so I need to know – as much as I possibly can – that you are safe.”

This made her angry.

“And what about me? I’ll have no way of knowing whether you survive or not, from one day to the next.” Alix sighed then, in resignation. “So, what would you have me do?”

“Wait. Please just wait.”

“He gets older each day Robin.”

“I know. But look, we leave soon. It won’t be a direct march – there are fortresses to rebuild along the way – but the king hopes to take Jerusalem sometime in January. Then it would be safer to travel. And perhaps I could….”

“….shhhh.” She held a finger to his lips. “No false hopes.”

Robin cradled her face.

“If I can, I’ll come to you. I promise. I don’t want to say goodbye.”

“Nor I,” she whispered.

But their last night came. And with it their last dawn. He slid from her one final time as the sky lightened outside. Alix ached at the loss, knowing it was nothing compared to what else lay ahead.

“I have to go,” he said at last, pressing his lips to her forehead.

She watched him dress, rising as he tied the bindings around his shirtsleeves.

“Your friend will be glad to have you back,” she observed.

“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” confessed Robin, “Some days I think he’s the only thing keeping me sane.”

“Will you tell him, please, how grateful I am he came to the house that day?”

“Typical Much, that…” grinned Robin. “Yes, I’ll tell him. But I think he knows already.”

The bindings done, he took hold of her hands, caressing them with his thumbs.

“Alix….”

Mutely, she shook her head. She gazed up at him, absorbing each detail of that beloved face. 

“Go,” she said. “Before I say things I’ve no right to say.”

“Me as well.” His lips were compressed, raw emotion in his eyes.

“Don’t regret it - I don’t. I’ll be fine. But you need to go, now, so I don’t fall apart in front of you. Then you would never believe me.”

“I don’t anyway. I know how I’m feeling.”

“At least you’ve done this before, when you left England.”

“No. She was furious with me, she refused to see me.”

“Ah…so I should shout, and curse you, to make this easier on us?”

“No,” said Robin. “You should kiss me.”

And so she did, the barest brush of their lips – as if he were already gone, eyes closed so he wouldn’t see her pain – and then he truly was gone, in more haste than she’d ever seen him leave before.

Alix stood for a long time then, in that one place. Pigeons scratched on the window ledge. She could hear footsteps and carts start to move about outside. But in here was the type of quiet that would swallow her, if she let it. _I’ll be fine_ , she’d said. Not exactly a lie, but nor was it true. She had no idea what to do. No idea how to move from that spot, to begin the motions of a new day, knowing there was no possibility he’d be coming back to her at the end of it.

In the end, she went out. Without intending it, she climbed to the newly-repaired battlements to watch the army de-camp. Others were there, leaning against the parapet under the bored eye of a guard near the end of his watch. Swiftly, the tents and pavilions came down. Supplies were loaded, ranks formed, and the orderly lines marched out, pennants waving, their dust wafting over the olive groves.

Following this her days became empty, the nights worse. The consequences of her choice. But at least, this time, it was her choice. If she had to do it all over again, Alix knew that she would do just the same.

Some nights, pacing the house - the bed too confining – she had to remind herself that thanks to Robin, finding her son was now a tangible hope. She would allow that thought to coax her back to bed, and finally to sleep.

But then, twice in as many weeks, Robin came to her.

They’d reached no further than the plains near Beit Dajan, he told her, less than six miles away. The advance, as predicted, was extremely slow. The king needed to fortify his supply lines, and leave a chain of secure strongholds for future pilgrims. So, while the Templars refortified the castle at Yazur, the engineers concentrated on nearby Casal Maen; the army foraged for supplies, and kept the enemy at bay.

Their interludes were brief, their coupling intense. Each time Robin was gone before dawn, his seed lingering between her thighs, leaving her with a tumult in her heart that she hid from him lest it keep him away.

But in the end, it didn’t matter; two weeks only, and the rebuilding was done.

And the army moved on.


	7. Safe Haven

“This is the last time,” grumbled Much, “I want to ever set foot in a tent again. When we leave, I mean. Because _everything’s_ wet. Look.”

He held up a pair of woollen chausses, wringing out the drips.

“So how much longer do you suppose it’s going to rain?” he went on. “It’s been two solid weeks now.”

“I didn’t think it would bother you, Much,” said Robin. “Thought it might remind you of home.”

“Yes, well that’s all well and good, but at home I don’t keep all my worldly belongings in a tent, or have to worry about keeping armour and swords dry. And your bow, now if that string…”

“Shhhh…” Robin put out a hand. “Listen.”

He stepped outside, into the soft drizzle. From upriver came the unmistakeable clash of steel, and the harsh cries of combat.

“Now that’s close,” observed Much, joining him.

“Rouse the men, Much, but no horn.”

That might avoid alerting the king. Robin would never counsel Richard against fighting in these skirmishes, like others did – as easily tell a river to change its course - and in truth this audacious courage bound Robin’s loyalty to him as much as anything else did. But if he could protect the king by other means, he would.

He was already running.

“You,” he shouted, to the nearest crusader, “get mounted, we’re under attack.”

His urgency rippled through the camp. Word flew, in no time a party on horseback was charging out of the camp, Robin at their head. They reached the scene in minutes. The Saracens had penetrated close enough to the camp to lure out the more hot-headed crusaders. The rescue party waded in, maces swinging, blades clashing.

“There, Much,” shouted Robin.

He pointed to a trio of horses being led away, their riders slumped over their necks. Robin recognised the symbol on the earl’s surcoat. Nudging his mount out of sword range, he let fly a handful of arrows that felled the men leading the captives. Offered a reprieve, Robert of Leicester and his companions scrambled down, hastily grabbing weapons and re-mounting.

Robin and Much and a handful of the king’s guard plunged in. Before they could reach them, Leicester’s horse was felled. Robin rode to defend him while Much, leaping down, waded into the river and hauled out of the shallows a rider-less mount to take to the earl.

“Sons of whores,” yelled Robert, laying about him with great swipes of his broadsword. “Murdering….spawn of…..”

“I’d save your breath, if I were you,” counselled Robin, his shield shuddering under a blow meant for the earl.

His sword slid between the attacker’s ribs, coming clear just in time to meet the next. There was no co-ordination on either side now, just a shifting, hacking melee. His opponent, a skilled swordsman, flowed attack to defence to attack in a rhythm Robin matched, all the while pressing, pressing, until the Saracen was trapped by the river. Mud suctioned the hooves of his mount, giving Robin an opening. His blade scythed through the light armour as if it were cloth. He swung to face the next blow, fending with a counter-strike that took him inside the man’s guard. The upward blow sheared the Saracen’s jaw, leaving a mess of dangling tendons and crushed bone. Robin wiped the blood from his face, and looked about for Much.

He was battling nearby, hacking and thrusting with grim concentration. Robin moved his mount closer to Much’s smaller one. Was a spear-cast away when an influx of fresh warriors charged towards them, lances at the level. As they bore down on Leicester and Much and their companions, Robin dropped reins and drew an arrow…

“Master!” yelled Much.

…checking, swivelling, Robin had half a heartbeat in which to fire in the opposite direction. The rider slumped, an eye pierced. The momentum of the charge carried his horse towards Robin; at the last moment, the animal veered, but the dangling lance tangled his mount’s legs, unhorsing Robin. He snatched up his bow and took aim; the Saracens were already upon the others, but with careful aim he took out one, two, before the next attack came his way and he was once again slashing, parrying, this time on foot, trying to keep his balance in the churned-up ooze.

Eventually this was certain death, against mounted men. He focussed on the next charge, feigned a slip but as the lance bore down in one direction he rolled aside and slashed up at the man’s leg. Even as he screamed Robin pulled him down, grabbed the mane and swung up onto the saddle. With no time to adjust to Saracen trappings, he guided the horse toward the others. He didn’t like being far from Much. Side by side they met the on-rushing wave of attacks until finally the Saracens were repelled and their own party - exhausted, bloodied and bruised - could retreat towards the camp.

“Thought we had them,” grunted Leicester by the campfire that night.

They were in a large tent, open to the front and vented overhead, where the king and his men gathered these rain-sodden evenings. The smell of smoke, as the fire hissed and spit, didn’t disguise the pervading odour of damp clothing and gear.

“They’d crossed to our side of the river. Then those three fools charged, got lured across and captured, so of course we had to go after them.” 

“I hear you acquitted yourself well,” Richard said, tapping fingers to his knee.

“If you count losing two horses a good day’s work,” humphed Leicester. “Add to that nearly drowning in my armour, and being thumped to hell and back by their bloody maces….I swear I’ll need to take a few heads myself, to get today’s taste out of my mouth.”

The king, as they all knew, was prone to riding back from these skirmishes with his enemies’ heads tied to his saddle. And Robin had learned long ago not to be deceived by the earl’s appearance. A small man of almost delicate frame, he was a ferocious fighter, and a wily tactician; one of Richard’s most trusted advisers.

As it happened, the earl didn’t have much opportunity to gather his trophies. Five days later, word came that the weather, unrelenting and demoralising, had finally prompted Saladin to do what was customary this time of year: he had disbanded the bulk of his army.

And upon verifying this, Richard and his closest companions left the camp, and moved up to Latroun to spend Christmas there.

                                           -------------------------------------------------------------------

Alix found herself, as time passed, watching for the caravans to come in. Their lines of camels sometimes stretched for miles. Merchants filled up the town and the bazaars as they restocked, and watered travellers and beasts. Alix would think of the many miles already covered, and of the journey to Tripoli way up north. She would watch them depart, their line snaking out along the road between the sand dunes, and wish she was going with them. But she’d promised Robin that she would wait; and so, Alix waited.

November crawled into December, and the rains came; the caravans ceased. There was no more word of the army. Even the infirmary set up in Jaffa while it was at Beit Dajan, where she’d helped some days – as much to reassure herself Robin wasn’t amongst the wounded, as anything - had been moved on, except for those men too ill to be transported to Casal Maen. Hopelessness plagued her. And night after night, she would lie awake, staring up into the dark, listening through the stifling silence for a footfall or a knock that never came.

Rain was incessant, turning the pavestones slick. The hand-shaped knocker slipped beneath her fingers. A bad day. A young squire she’d thought almost recovered had had a seizure; the monks had shoved her out of the way, rushing to restrain him, but he hadn’t survived. Now, wan and despairing, Alix stepped inside, wringing out the hem of her mantle.

“Bashir, I can’t tell you how glad I am to be home,” she said, pushing back the cowl.

“I’ll take that,” the porter said, easing it from her shoulders.

As he did so a figure stepped away from the wall, coming towards her in the drip-laden gloom. Alix’s heart leapt.

“No, I will,” said Robin.

And like dew beneath a desert sun her sorrow evaporated. Alix rushed to him, knew only his arms about her, his scent, his lips, crashing down on hers, her own desperate need for him. It blocked out everything else. Alix had no memory of it later, but somehow they reached her room. Bodies fitting together as if never separated. Too urgent to shed clothes, just hasty caresses, their moans a duet as he pushed aside her damp skirts and sunk deep.

Afterwards, they took their time. Tasting, exploring, Robin playful and affectionate. He made her laugh, once – _it lights up your eyes_ , he murmured, pressing inside her again. He rested there, poised, all thought of laughter forgotten.

Skin cool and smooth beneath her fingers, broken here and there by scars, as she ran her hands over and round and over him. _I’ve missed you, sireli_ , she whispered, _beyond reason…beyond belief_. The slow, stirring motion of his hips; _and I you, my darling_. His hand caressing between them, bringing her to the brink, Alix trying and failing to hold his gaze as she rode the crescendo of pleasure that broke in waves, pulling him into it with her until they both collapsed, their breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

When Alix became sensible of her surroundings again, she saw that the afternoon light had faded. Another storm was building. A trail of water seeped from the window ledge as rain beat steadily down. They drew the covers over themselves and lay wrapped tightly, her head against his chest.

“Tell me, how long can you stay?” she asked.

It wasn’t like his other visits; he’d come in the daytime. This lit a tiny flame of hope within her.

“A lot has happened,” he began, his tone neutral. “I’m only here for a day or so – but then I’ll come straight back.”

“From where?” Alix was puzzled.

“The army’s at Ramla, it has been for weeks. But the Sultan’s sent most of his troops home and withdrawn the rest to Jerusalem. So, King Richard’s left the army for now and gone to Latroun, where he’ll stay for Christmas. And while things are peaceful, he’s decided to send for his wife and sister. They’re to spend the season with him there.”

“So you’re to accompany them?” Alix ventured. “And then, you’ll be free to return?”

“I will.” Robin paused, his hand stroking gently up and down her arm.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” she murmured, drawing back to look at him.

“Yes. It’s good news.” He paused so long Alix doubted it was that simple. “After Latroun, we’ll begin the push for Jerusalem. The king expects victory, but will prepare for everything. He’s decided to send his wife and sister north after that, for their safety. He believes the coastal towns would quickly become a target if we were to fail.”

“Where are they going? To Tripoli?”

“Yes. He’ll send a galleon north, with an escort. It’ll only take two days, easy enough to bring them back if we’re successful. And you are to go with them.”

Alix pressed a hand against his chest, and his fingers closed around hers. She gazed into those sea-coloured eyes, which were both warm and sorrowful, and felt pain where, surely, there should only be joy? _My son, I’ll be able to find him_.

Then why was her contrary heart so torn?

Her mind raced. If the Crusaders took Jerusalem, and it was safe next year for the royal party to return, then surely she and René could do so as well? She was about to ask Robin this, wanting his reassurance - but something held her back. It was too much to ask. It was seeing a future for them, when there could be none. If things got to that stage, after all, he would be going home - to his beloved.

 _Couldn’t that be me?_ a small part of her cried. But he’d never promised her this; had been honest from the start. She liked to think that perhaps she had won a small corner of his heart. But if so it would stay locked here, in this land, and wither away from neglect over time.

No, he’d be with her for these two weeks and after that, it would be the end. She saw the knowledge of this in Robin’s eyes, and it claimed her as well.

She didn’t know how to cope with such finality; tears spilled, though she tried to restrain them.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry….” Alix wiped ineffectually at her face.

“Hush – no, it’s alright…” Robin’s thumbs caressed her cheeks. “I understand, believe me.”

“After all you’ve done…this is so….ungrateful.”

“If you didn’t cry, just a bit, I’d think I was losing my touch.” A rueful smile.

“Fool.” She too smiled a little.

“We still have two weeks,” he said, drawing her in close. “And by then, you’ll be sick of me, you’ll see. If I try hard enough.”

“And how will you do that?” she asked, playing along. It gave her the chance to compose herself.

“I’ll bring Much with me. He’s a far better man than me – you’ll see. He can cook, for one thing.”

“I have someone for that already.”

“He’s brave, and loyal.”

“As are you.” Alix slid an arm about his waist, tangling their legs.

“But he does snore.”

“Well, he won’t be sharing my bed. You will be.”

“Yes,” murmured Robin. “I will be.”

He kissed her tenderly, then. And after all that had been said, and left unsaid, they lay subdued, embracing quietly, listening to the thunder roll in from the sea. It’s great noise split the sky above them, as if a leviathan from the deep had risen over Jaffa to thrash its tail in anger.

Swiftly, the darkness closed in; the rain continued to fall.

                                        ------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
They walked.

It was a far cry from their earlier, sun-beaten days, but once he returned from Latroun it suited Robin’s mood. Wind clawed at hair, whipped away words. The sands were littered with dead sea-birds. They misjudged the weather badly, once, as rain plummeted down. They were near the headland, and stumbled across rocks to the nearest cave. They huddled there shivering, hair plastered down. Alix’s hung about her face in wet, stringy strands.

“Look.” She pointed to a clump of rocks by where they sat; one had embedded in it the clear shape of a long tooth.

Robin drew his dagger and prised the rock free. He used the tip work the tooth from its niche. It came out intact, but largely encrusted in coral. Perfectly shaped, as far as he could see; long and slender. He could imagine the damage it might inflict when attached to a sea predator, in a mouth full of its fellows.

“I’ve seen them in the bazaar,” Alix said. “They’re called tongue stones – folk think they belong to dragons. They believe they can ward off poison.”

“Rubbish,” scoffed Robin.

“Of course it is.” Alix took the tooth from him, turning it, her fingers white with cold. “Still, if this were cleaned up, it would make a fine piece. I could take it to someone in the artisan’s quarter, if you like. They’d have the proper tools. There’s still time.”

“Very little. But I’d like that, thank you.” Robin enclosed her hands between his, rubbing them. “Look, you’re freezing….we shouldn’t stay here. Let’s get back and get you warmed up.”

When they arrived home, Much was waiting.

“My lady, what was he thinking?” he scolded. “I told him it would be like this today, but he never listens. Here, let me take those.”

“It’s alright Much, I’ll take care of it,” Robin said. “If you can manage some warmed wine though, I’d be grateful.”

In Alix’s room, they stripped down and put on dry clothes. Robin took away the wet garments. When he returned, bearing the wine, Alix was sitting on the bed, clad in a shift and a warm shawl, brushing out her hair. He watched a few moments, thrown off-balance, being suddenly confronted with this image of what a normal, sane life could look like.

He went and sat beside her, handing her a goblet, and noticed an embroidered headband on the low table beside them. It was hung with coins, like the cap he’d bought that day at the bazaar. But this was simpler, designed only to adorn the forehead. He picked it up, examining it.

“When did you get this?”

“I saw it yesterday. I thought…. it’s for day wear, you see, not special occasions. If I’m travelling with the royal women, I wanted to look….well, not like an ex-slave,” she finished, abashed.

“No one,” Robin said softly, “could mistake you for less than you are.”

He put down his wine. Leaning in he kissed her then, parting her lips, tasting the spices. He slid his hands beneath her shift, stroking - lightly at first, just fingertips, circling, teasing. Then running them over her as the kiss deepened, a foretaste of their joining that made them draw apart just long enough to undress. Robin threw her shift down. With that gone his lips were free to roam, across her breasts, her stomach. His fingers trailed down, caressing the inside of her thighs. Then he knelt, settling between them, and began kissing where his fingers led. 

The brush clattered to the floor, knocked from the bed. Alix moaned. As her body responded, so did his. When he was done, and Alix lay abandoned and beautiful – _so beautiful_ , her skin gleaming in the warm orange light of the brazier coals - he moved up over her, aroused past bearing.

At some point during their lovemaking – standing by the bed, one hand nestled in her hair - he placed the headband on her. Then he drew her up, before it was too late.

“Turn around,” Robin said huskily.

He leaned her forward. Hands skimming her back, he slowed over her scars and then – one arm encircling her - began caressing that spot which he knew would reduce her to a morass of sensation. _Now Robin, please_ , Alix breathed. _Now_. He tilted her further, sliding in between her thighs. Hands on her hips, he started to move, a rhythm that set the coins on her forehead clinking gently in time to his thrusts. 

Afterwards they nestled together, skin against skin, warm and sated and sorrowing.

_So little time._

Almost exactly a fortnight, as it happened. Richard’s wife and sister were returned to Jaffa two days before the year turned. The messenger who came for him told Robin he was expected - Richard was preparing to join the army again, intending to march to Beit Nuba. This would take them within twelve miles from Jerusalem.

Their last morning, both readied their belongings mostly in silence. When they did speak, it was largely of the commonplace.

“Did Much get those boots back from the cobbler?”

“He did, yesterday afternoon.”

“Which reminds me.” Alix picked up a pouch, fumbling over the drawstring.

Robin closed his hands around hers, steadying them.

“Hush, my darling.”

“I’m alright,” she lied.

He watched her draw from the pouch the tooth they’d found in the cave. The craftsman had refined and set it; he took it from Alix, turning it in his hand.

“He did a good job,” Robin observed.

“Yes. Will you wear it?”

He was already placing it around his neck. She fastened it, her fingertips grazing the nape of his neck. Robin caught her hand, pressing it to his lips.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “It’s all I will have of you.”

“Not true,” she said, turning back to her tasks, hiding her tears.

The morning passed; they reached the port at the appointed time. Now they were there, Robin was at a loss. With the rowboat waiting, there seemed a world of things he should have said, or still should say - none of which would do any good, or change the fact that she was leaving, now, and that he could see no way in this world that they would ever meet again.

In the end, he simply placed one hand behind her head, another around her waist, and gathered her in. He held her there, his cheek against her hair, the wind wrapping his cloak around them both.

“We do have a tide to catch today,” the boatman grumbled.

Alix pressed Robin’s hand in farewell. She stepped away, stumbling a little. Robin moved to help, but the boatman had already caught her elbow, and was guiding her into the boat.

Denied even that last, small service.

The boat pulled out. Alix spent longer than necessary fussing over her damp hem, arranging her belongings – composing herself, before looking back. Would he could do the same. Robin raised his eyes to the sky, pressing his lips together. Took a deep, calming breath. Then, as he watched the boat take to the channel, he heard steps approaching. Glancing back, he saw Much.

“What are you doing here?” he said, resentfully.

He wanted to be alone.

“I thought you might – you know, need some company. After she’s gone.”

They watched the boat navigate the narrow reef, the cloaked figure in the prow, clinging with one hand, sitting as straight and calm as the choppy waters would allow.

“Am I doing the right thing, Much, letting her go?” he asked quietly.

“ _Letting_ her go? I don’t think you could stop her. It’s her one chance of finding her boy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The boat lurched through the gap, beyond the shelter of the inner harbour, heading toward the royal vessel. 

“Besides,” Much went on, “you're going home some day, you know you are, to Marian."

“Yes, I know. But it has been five years, Much. What if she’s found someone else?" He voiced that fear which always accompanied his memories of Marian. "She could be married by now.”

“Well, there is that I suppose. But look, you’re not thinking straight. In fact, I don’t know if you are thinking at all. If we ever get home and you find that the Lady Marian has become Lady Somebody Else, then you could always come back here one day. Find Alix again.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Robin muttered.

He didn’t confess that the same wild thought had occurred to him; he’d dismissed it as belonging to a too-distant future, one with too many variables.

“So, would you do that?” Much asked curiously.

Blotchy clouds merged into a low-slung mist on the horizon; a squall swept in, flinging rain in their faces.

“Yes,” Robin said, almost to himself. “I would.”

And whatever that admission meant to him, the woman who had prompted it was even then climbing aboard the Venetian galleon offshore. As soon as the squall cleared it would make sail, heading up the coast for Tripoli. So with Alix truly gone, hoisting his bag Robin turned away. He walked back up the beach, and Much slowly followed.

There was nothing left, now, but to return to the king, and to whatever fate this war held for him.  
  
  
  
  



	8. Outremer

Alix watched, dully, as the coastline slipped by, her heart heavy as stone. She could tell when they drew near Tyre by the upsurge of activity amongst the crew, and the change of direction. The same had occurred near Acre; the captain was giving these strongholds a wide berth. Heading out to sea, they were shadowed by their watch-dogs: two double-masted galleons with massive banks of oars. Alix watched the golden crosses flare on their great crimson sails as they snapped and filled in the wind.

It was her first sea voyage. All new to her, the ocean’s changing face, the play of light on water, the tang of salt. The beckoning horizon. The slap of water against the bow.

All of it, mile by steady mile, taking her away from Robin.

It would have been hard to find a more comfortable vessel for it. The royal craft, sleek and crescent-shaped, had been outfitted for command, and for hosting envoys. The extra holds added height, and gave more space for living quarters. Silk hangings, ebony-carved tripod tables, footstools, ottomans - no luxury had been omitted that could contribute to the comfort of the royal guests. 

Alix had been nervous at first, meeting the English queen and the king’s sister.

“So, you’re the one who ensnared Richard’s captain? You’ve been keeping him hidden away, I hear.”

It hadn’t been an auspicious start.

“Joan, leave her alone,” said Richard’s queen.

Berengaria, Alix guessed, was around her age. Her long, dark hair was braided, worn in a net flecked with golden thread. A cross hung about her neck, down over a deep-green bodice with an embroidered panel. Her face was long, but not unattractive. Alix noticed a reserve about her, and a softness in her hazel eyes which her sister-in-law seemed to lack.

“Why?” demanded Joan. “If she’s been Huntingdon’s paramour, she must have some spark in her. So, tell me dear, are you with child? He’s a man of honour, that would be a sure way for you to keep him here.”

Alix felt colour suffuse her face, but answered calmly enough.

“No, Your Highness, I'm not." Alix paused, drew in a breath. “He’ll return to England, he’s never said otherwise. He was betrothed there.”

She saw pity in Joan’s eyes; a mocking retort would have been better.

“Yes, a man of honour,” murmured the queen. “Richard’s said so, often.”

Berengaria surprised her then. She reached out, placing a soft hand over hers, where it lay in her lap. The queen would have felt it clenched. She gave a slight squeeze; withdrew. The quiet sympathy of someone who understood more than she was prepared to say.

“You’re seeking your son, we were told,” she offered instead.

“Yes.”

“Do you know where to look?” asked Joan.

“I have a name, a place to start. That’s all.”

“Well, we have resources. We can help you make enquiries,” she said, perhaps repenting her earlier brusqueness. “You will find him.”

Next morning, as their vessel slipped into the harbour of Tripoli, Alix wished she had Joan’s confidence. The city was strung along the slopes of a hill about half a mile inland. Joan appeared beside her, strands of her colt-brown hair lifting in the breeze. They watched the approach in silence. Oriented north to south, the perimeter was guarded by a high wall. The citadel on Pilgrim’s Mountain rose from these surrounds, stark and forbidding.

Along the port, merchant’s storehouses hosted a busy trade, but the royal party was unaffected by its noisy commerce. They were conducted straight to a row of waiting litters – word had been sent ahead of their arrival.

Cocooned in the scented, stuffy interior, Alix wept silently. She’d tried to hide her grief during the voyage, but Joan had commented more than once on her pallor. The litter rocked along the road into the city, stopping occasionally. The third time the bearers paused, Alix brushed her eyes, drew aside the curtain and looked out to see what had caused the obstruction.

Instead her gaze was drawn up, to a monumental gateway set in the walls through which they were about to pass. As they lurched forward, she looped the curtain back so that she could take in the sights. The city had a certain charm, its houses built of stone, glimpses of enclosed gardens and fountains. They passed bath-houses and a caravansary, before the road moved into the shade of high, arched arcades. The bazaar was here, and beggars with sores and bowls, and as they leered up at her the bearers aimed curses and the occasional lazy kick. Alix dropped the curtain, retreating into the enclosed litter.

The royal party was housed in the governor’s house. It was recently built, in the Frankish style. From here she could see the fields of tall sugar cane, and the mulberry groves which housed the silk-worms; these were the crux of the county’s trade. Beyond, orchards and vineyards spread across the foothills and the hazy slopes of Mt Lybanus. 

Count Bohemond, Alix saw, was still a youth – probably ten years Robin’s junior. Tall, competent, but still a youth. He had thin lips and curly hair. He was growing a beard; it grew erratically up the lower side of his jaw. At the reception feast that evening, he was unable to hide his interest in Joan. He must have known the king’s sister to be well above the reach of a count of Outremer, but was young enough and comely enough to think he might still have a chance, if he were charming as well. Alix stifled a smile; Joan would soon disabuse him of that folly.

Alix made use of his distraction. One polite, offhand conversation was all it took; she had the information which she’d thought it would take her days to find.

So now, here she was.

One side of the loggia was lined with arches open to the sea. Alix rested her palms on the stone balustrade, watching the white caps frothing the bay. Her shoulders ached; she made a conscious effort to relax them. But nothing could calm her turbulent thoughts.

She’d waited for this, for so long. Had dreamed of it. It had been a bright, sharp blade of hope slicing through years of despair, preventing them from defeating her. But what had never figured in these dreams was how nervous she would be, now that the time had come.

Alix wondered, not for the first time, what René would look like. She’d woken the night before, afraid again that he wouldn’t recognise her. She’d been absent for almost half his life now. There were others who’d cared for him, and cared for him well; they would be the centre of his world. What would she be? A fragment of memory? A fading recollection, of a voice, of laughter, of fond hugs?

_He will love you, of course he will. If not the first day, then the one after. You’re his mother. Now go to sleep._ She could just hear Robin saying it. Trying to set everything right, as always. She’d remembered his touch, soothing her; then, as it happened, not helping her rest so much. Alix had curled up last night around the memory, chasing sleep, wishing him there so fiercely it had hurt.

A door opened now, at the far end of the loggia. Footsteps. A childish voice.

“But _tata_ , is it true? Is it really her?”

Alix swung around, one hand lingering on the balustrade for support. Saw the young woman there, fair-haired and frowning slightly, her hands resting on the lad’s shoulders.

“See for yourself, _mon petit_. She is there, waiting.”

Leaner than before, he was; and taller of course, to Marie’s chest height. Dark hair the shade of her own, ordered only as much as an eight-year-old’s could be; a neatly tailored outfit, freshly marked at the knees from play. But René was hesitant, watchful, holding onto Marie’s skirts. Alix took a step forward…and he retreated behind Marie.

She stumbled, her sight blurring. _Be calm_. Alix put out a hand, bumping an urn, which tipped and shattered. She went down with it. Blood welled across her wrist. She could only look at it stupidly, but Marie ran forward.

“You’re hurt – here….”

“Wait…don’t go…”

But it was too late. René, alarmed, had turned and fled.

“Don’t take any notice, he’s just confused,” Marie tried to reassure her. “And scared.”

“Of me,” choked Alix.

Marie helped her up.

“Of change. Give him time.” Marie hugged her, the action more reassuring than her words. “It’s wonderful to see you – I never thought….it’s been so long, none of us had any idea what happened to you.”

“René believed me dead, then?”

Marie linked an arm, coaxing her forward.

“We…rarely spoke of you, after the first year. I’m sorry, Alix. I thought it best. It was such an awful time. He had nightmares for months…he kept asking if the men with the swords had hurt you.” 

“What did you tell him?” Alix shook her head slightly. “No, wait – it doesn’t matter. He is here, and he’s safe, and I owe you….I can never repay it, all that you’ve done…”

“Shhhh, it’s alright.” Marie soothed as she trembled, stroking her arm.

Neither had heard the door reopen. Glancing up, Alix saw then that René was there, holding a bowl and a cloth. He looked up at her shyly.

“ _Tata_ Marie does this for me, whenever I fall down. Look, I took Laila’s bowl and filled it, the puppies had knocked it over. And the maid gave me a cloth. Here.”

Alix heard Marie giggle. She felt the urge to laugh herself well up, as relief and gladness filled her.

“Thank you, René, that was quick thinking.”

“Here, I’ll take those,” Marie said, before Alix had to. “What else do I do, _mon petit_ , when you hurt yourself?”

René pursed his lips, thinking.

“You give me a cuddle.”

“Well,” she said softly, “perhaps that might make her feel better too.”

And as his arms came about her waist, and she heard the muffled whisper against her skirts of _Maman_ , _maman_ , through her tears Alix saw Marie smile at her and felt – for that moment - that here at least was one hurt which, over time, could somehow be healed.

                                               ----------------------------------------------------------------

Acre again. Robin sat at the door of the tent, scanning the camp, watchfires blooming here and there across the sands in the blue light of dusk. _Will I ever get away from here_?

More conflict. Conrad of Montferrat trying to seize the city, with the aid of the Genoese and Hugh of Burgundy. The defending Pisans appealing to Richard for help, though the king and his party – riding north to negotiate with Conrad - were already on their way when it came.

All this strife, these rival kingship factions, seemed more pointless to Robin than ever. The push for Jerusalem had been aborted, for now. Over the past month they’d been back at the coast, refortifying Ascalon, a base which harassing the caravans from Egypt would help to fund. Morale had been low; Richard himself, though only a few saw it, had been seething with frustration.

“You saw the map?” he’d asked, the day the council had met to decide strategy.

“I did,” said Robin.

They’d been standing on the battlements at Beit Nuba, between talks, Richard’s mood black as the leaden sky. He’d asked those who knew Jerusalem well to draw a detailed map; the extent of the walls had been an unwelcome revelation. To prevent supplies getting in, and to defend against forays, would be a massive task for any besieging army.

“They’ll never go for it, not now.”

“Would you – if you were them?”

The swelling of disquiet – amongst the Templars, the Hospitallers, and others who knew the land well – had been growing. Morale had plummeted, along with the temperatures; snow, rotten food, rusted armour and weapons, all of it put a stress on the common soldier that two months of campaigning in poor conditions had left them ill equipped to withstand. The rate of desertions was high.

“If we were full strength, perhaps. But now? Our numbers are too thin. It doesn’t favour us, anyone can see that. The rest of what they say is also true. Even if we succeeded, half of them would decide their job was done and return home. We’d never hold it.”

The king gazed in the direction of Jerusalem, shaking his head.

“So close, Robin. So damn close,” he murmured. “It will be a hard thing, if it all comes to nothing. If, after all we’ve endured, we are to fail.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best. There might be another way.”

Robin wondered, the next moment, if this were too outspoken - even for him. Richard had glanced at him, then laughed bitterly.

“Ever one to say what you think, heh Robin?”

But Robin said nothing more. To him, battling over the Holy City - as Alix once observed - seemed to miss the whole point of the place they were trying to take.

_Where is she now? Has she found René_?

These last weeks, as they’d lingered at Beit Nuba, or slogged through mud and snow back to the coast, or toiled in Ascalon, she’d been in his thoughts. He couldn’t shake the sense that things between them were… unfinished.

He’d been honest about the fact he’d be going home, trying to pick up the threads of his old life. Had been so sure of it, while there was any chance Marian might have waited for him. Yet when Alix left, he felt that somehow, over the course of their time together, it had become a decision; and one he didn’t particularly want to make.

So, in the end, he’d just let events take their course. But it had left him feeling hollow, restless. Much had wondered what was wrong, the night the thought hit him that if Alix bore him a child - despite all her precautions - he would never know. It was during their ride north to Acre. He’d sat outside in the dark for hours, considering petitioning Richard for a release from service so that he could continue up to Tripoli, to find this out, and to make certain that she had found her son.

But it was a crazy, half-formed plan at best. He didn’t act on it.

He’d once told Much he couldn’t bear to remember home, that if he did he couldn’t stand to be _here_. That hadn’t been quite true. Always, in the back of his mind, had been the hope that Marian would be waiting. She’d once told him that he owned her heart; he had to believe that, despite their broken betrothal, this would still be true. It was for him. All this time, he’d treasured his love for her in the deepest places of his own. And mostly, it had been enough.

And when it wasn’t – when war finally unravelled him – Alix had come along. With her poise, her affection, her understanding. With her love. Robin knew, of course, that she loved him; had drunk deeply of it, as if it were the sweetest, most nourishing spring he would ever find. And at its source, an unselfishness which had put the happiness he could have with another woman above her own. 

He stood and stretched. A quick turn of the camp, a bit of banter with the sentries, none of it could shake the lingering guilt he felt that he couldn’t have given Alix something _more_. He hoped regaining her son would be enough; he suspected, if the love he still bore Marian was any indication, that perhaps it never would be.

Robin wandered to the edge of the camp, gazing towards Acre. They were near the killing grounds; all blown sands now. They covered the bleached bones there the same way his time with Alix had smoothed over the scars that day had left on him. Now she’d gone, Robin realised how much he’d come to rely on Alix. Being with her, he’d felt truly at peace with himself, for the first time in months.

He still missed her. She’d been his haven from it, but even so, someone who knew what this war was like, what it could do to those whose lives it touched. She understood this in a way no one else, except Much, ever would.

Robin walked back to the tent, resuming his seat. He wanted this war to be over. Since Alix had gone, more than ever he wanted to be out of it. He wanted to go home, to see whether his dreams of a future with Marian held any substance, or if his choices in the past had robbed him of that chance. Even now, he could remember so clearly the hurt on her face. How her eyes had darkened with dismay, when he told her of his decision to go to war. His heart prickled with guilt at the thought; he’d abandoned her, and for what?

But before his thoughts could go further along these paths, destroying any hope of sleep, Robin rose.

Rest was a patchy thing at best. During the months of campaigning, Saracens regularly infiltrated the camp. A man could disappear overnight, or be found in the morning with his throat cut, his horse and weapons missing. But here, at Acre, with the Sultan’s army nowhere near, there was less reason to suspect trouble.

It was full dark now. Much returned, grumbling about a broken handle at the well. Robin took the water skins inside; Much made a final check of the bedding, and doused the lamp. Fires still flickered at intervals across the camp. As Robin dropped the tent curtain, the nearest sentry dipped his spear-point in acknowledgement; Robin and Much were to replace him at midnight.

It couldn’t have been far from that when he woke. Robin couldn’t say what had disturbed him. He lay a few moments, sifting through the heavy desert silence for whatever had alerted him.

Then swords clashed, right outside the tent. His eyes flashed open. He was moving before the alarm sounded, throwing back the cover, leaping to his feet.

“Much – Saracen raid,” he cried. “The king is under attack. Much!”

And with his blood pounding, Robin snatched up his bow and a cluster of arrows, and hurtled out into the night.

  
**The end  
**   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Penelope and ArtC, and those Penelope consulted, for offering some thoughts on the second half of the chapter.
> 
> Thanks to all those who have followed the story, and also to those who have left comments, for your kind support. It's much appreciated!


End file.
